Fickle and free, I look in the mirror and think...when did it become so aesthetically fucking cool to look so damn disheveled and careless? Not dirty, but messy. Disheveled and right at home in a home where nothing stays in its place not even me. Flighty and flowing like a breeze or early spring rain spattering from the sky into a puddle that runs into a million little rivers down in the earth only to be the catalyst that turns death to life, springing forth like time lapse photography verdant vegetation that I may become the beautiful weed in someone's garden if only for a certain time until the weed is replaced by a cunning rose bush covered in red budding blooms like velvety blood in a flood...
....but the weed was a seed and the rose has thorns.
So the little weed goes back to a seed and drifts in the wind until it finds another special place to bloom where there's plenty of room and the smile of a friend means a time to begin and life starts allover but with each blossom and seed the weed never forgets he who smiled upon her that time in a bottle where life was a throttle...and it doesn't hurt anymore for when she looks at a rose she knows he's better off lest he feel the thorn.
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