How can one hold in their palm a catapillar, wanting to see it's transformation, to watch it turn and emerge into the most beautiful of butterflies, yet every time it begins to spin it's cacoon, he rips its silk away? How can one grow into what is the flower of their own root, when each time they push to the top of the soil, they are ground back down into the earth? How can a lilac know its beauty if its flower is continuously cut from its stem... how can one know their worth, when always told they are nothing... Yet she knows her worth, still choosing those that wish to have her believe that she is in fact worth nothing, a twisted, demented vine, grotesque and not capable of growing into a straight shining rose. Amazing how difficult it seems for some to grasp onto the concept of what brings nature to life... love.. tenderness... caring... tending the soil... watering the plants, making sure they have just enough sunlight... You are no gardener, my friend, but rather one who tends the manure, for the piling on of shit that smothers growth is all you seem to know.
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