The artists are dandelions:
There are so many of them
unwanted.
God called my mother
a dandelion
and told her she was
better than all the other
flowers.
Wasn't too long
till they chopped off her head,
poured weed killer
across her stem
and she drank it up,
became a member of society:
bane.
But not before she born me.
And I'm still a seed
flipping in the breeze
past the wanted flowers,
one of the few artists
who's still got a head.
But the mower is always
in the distance.
And who knows where
this wind will carry me?—when
we are all destined to be
shitty poems.
No comments:
Post a Comment