I am like a weed in a garden
When I bloom I am torn
Beaten
For fear my seeds will spread
Sometimes I am so damaged
And humiliated
I think I cannot bloom again
I will not
Am I poisonous?
Do I have thorns?
Does my fragrance offend?
Are my flowers so ugly?
Too bad!
I have no others
And I will not wither away
To make room for more
Of what already grows
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