The weeds hold on to their roots.
They want all they've ever known.
The dirt is universal and has learned to mute,
But the land is overgrown.

The humans pick the weeds,
Because of their imperfections.
But the weeds are, in reality,
Not the true burdens.

The weeds are like the real humans:
the ones who don't hide their flaws.
But most crave to look like the flowers,
As they sit there revealing their awe.

Yet inside, the weeds are flourishing,
More than the flowers ever could.
The truth is, the weeds are just frightened,
And entirely misunderstood.

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