At times, I feel like a small speck in this world.
A small miserable speck.
Because the galaxies of our universe swallow me up to the point I am digested into the
judgemental society that says I have to be the delicate, pink scented rose that my mother has raised me to be.
But mother, I have yet to bloom into the real world,
where they start to pick off your petals one at a time no matter how much you try to soak up the radiating sunshine.
There will be rainy days headed my way, and there will not be anyone there to shelter my fragile structure.
And this world will not slow down to help me back up, mother.
I will become wilted and unable to recover.
My color will dim, and my kind scent will diminish.
And I have begun to realize that every flower child needs her mother nature.
But mother, you are not living up to your nature to nurture my stem and thorns.
And the day I happen to prick someone, and they puncture my stem…
Where will you be?
Where will my ray of sunshine be?
The darkness will engulf the life out of my roots.
Happy days will not exist.
Mother, I gave you my love but you tossed it away.
The paradise I once existed in has turned into a nightmare,
and unending cloud of grey.
And empty, dark, black hole has left me with broken limbs and shattered dreams.
Mother, I know loving can hurt, but sometimes, it is the only thing we really know how to do.
I want you to make my heart beat like the rain.
Because in order to survive, I have to feel the rhythm of your energy rushing through my veins.
Yet the most appropriate way to do that is to appreciate our own petals,
our own thorns,
our own scent,
and our own secrets.
Once you have begun to know your own design,
then you can be a part of mine.
And even on our weakest days, we will become a little bit stronger.
We will not have to wait any longer for clear skies and rainbows.
But the moment you take a step out onto the water, and you think you are going to drift on the glassy surface,
you end up sinking,
crumbling into the fearful, icy sea bottom.
You become trapped in a crystal bottle, unable to flat back to the shoreline.
You learn that in the end, mother nature needs her flower child,
just as much as the flower child needs her mother nature.