High Praises

High praises 

To the girl who plucked the thorns from her own back

And proceeded to lick her own wounds clean

The girl who scrubbed her sorrows away until her skin burned and gleamed

The girl who had been run over and looked over 

By all sorts of wandering eyes

Eyes that judged the flower by the soil it grew in and not by the fruit it produced

Eyes that saw her broken but could not tell their hands to move

Eyes that allowed her to be swallowed 

By her own weeds and were tickled by the struggle 

Eyes watching from every which way

Infatuated with the falling withered petals

High praises 

To the girl, oh the flower

Who gained strength from those eyes

Who wrestled with those weeds

Day in and day out

Piecing those weak petals back together

That pain made you fearless and ambitious

You did not cause the pain

But you took control of your healing

Sorry to those eyes

Who wish they would have noticed what you were becoming