Weeds

This poem is one of many from my ‘cigarette break poems’ collection. I wrote it on the wall outside the office one day when I was feeling particularly dispirited about my place in the world. It often seems like everyone is happy with who they are and what they’re doing, and I’m never satisfied. I often feel as though I have nothing in common with other people.

 

Sometimes I think

I’m a weed,

slowly growing up

and apart

and shunned

by the flowers.

And then I think,

“Well the flowers

have their own

kind of beauty,

and I have mine.”

I think my looks

get held

against me.

I’m so tired,

so, so tired;

I don’t mind

if I live or die,

so I’ve stopped looking out

for danger.

Hell,

I embrace it;

I wrap it up in my arms

and try to get killed

without meaning.

It doesn’t mean much,

to me at least.

It’s a perspective thing;

roses are ugly

and boring,

but weeds can sting

and share some misery.

Sometimes they even

sting themselves.