Grown
We are grown, rare and beautiful
Among the pale and lacking.
We are cultivated, nursed and loved,
Encouraged to stand tall;
But whichever way the wind will blow,
It takes us on its whim
And breaks our tiny, fragile stems
As we lay sprawling on the ground below.
I’d rather be a tree than a flower,
Unable to be snapped by wind
And ever able to touch the sky;
To find the light therein.
We are grown, bright and shining
Among the dull and darkness.
Our hearts are ever refracting
The light that makes us glitter;
But whichever way the hammer falls,
It takes us on its whim
And breaks our solid outer shells
To find the beauty lodged within those walls.
I’d rather be a pebble than a gem,
Dull and undisturbed by man
And ever able to roll away
To far-off, distant lands.
I was grown, small but daring
Among the sea of sameness.
My eyes were ever searching
For the dream of living loved;
But whichever way the spirit flew,
It took me on its whim
And it broke my heart a thousand times
Before I found that I was born anew.
I’d rather be alone than like others,
Have passion in my dancing tread,
And ever able to find myself
When all my dreams have fled.
Coffee Stains & Crumpled Paper -- A Writers Guild
A haven for writers of all kinds.
