Buttercup

I am a buttercup. Bright and blooming.
I am growing in the yard amidst the grass.
I cannot recall how many times I've been picked for my beauty
And then discarded like an unimportant memory.
I stand out against the purely normal green of the lawn
And in exchange for my difference, I am called a weed.
I am treated as a nuisance, as something pestilential, solely for my conspicuousness.
I do not blend into the landscape, like the resolute blades of grass.
And I am punished for it.
Sprayed with chemicals.
Cut by mowers.
But do I not just simply regrow?
I am more than weed. I am beautiful and delicate and determined. 
I am a buttercup.