A letter to those who need help in blossoming.

Dear whom ever you might be,

I am the offspring of nature and the sun

My parents call me their son/sunflower.

My parents are exotic, foreign,

They hoped by planting me here

The soil I lived in would help me grow better than they did.

On the first day of school,

I am teased for the fullness of my stump,

For the distinctiveness in my appearance.

I then throw dirt on my roots,

Dig them into the ground,

Where they are nowhere to be seen,

Nowhere to be found.

I begin to sleep on tear soaked pillows

As if it had rained and my soil was flooded.

I am on a flower cart,

Selling myself out,

Trying to be like them,

Generic flowers, sold by the dozen.

Doesn’t it seem funny that

I am a sunflower in a field of roses, daisies, and dandelions?

Where I am lying about who I am.

Maybe, those won’t hate me

If I try to grow into a flower pot I won’t fit.

Other beautiful flowers turning into pot

Because they won’t fit in.

Those daisy white lies are not fitting for their appearances.

They’re not green with envy,

They’re red with jealousy,

With everything I do,

I’ll photosynthesize.

They will soon be like the soil, beneath me

Looking up to say “oh he rose into a beautiful being”.

My pain did not worsen overtime

Realizing that the fullness in my stump

Represents how in touch I am with my roots

So I dig them from the ground

To stranglethorn the hate

Out of their stems,

To nourish them to be as loving and open as me.

These are the flowers we should be giving.

Not forcing them to grow in flower pots.

The only reason why we don’t fit in flower pots

Is because

Our roots are a big part of us,

And you expect us to hide them

So that we too, can be beautiful.

No matter, the type of flower, type of roots

All are beautiful

These are the flowers we should be giving

Not selling,

Each unique.

With no price.

Individuality is priceless.

When everyone is weeping willows there is no prize, nobody wins

These,

Are the flowers we should be giving to our parents.

To my parents,

From your son/sunflower,

I’m proud to be y’orchid/your kid.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
My community
My country
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741