Weeds.

Listen up good, kid, ‘cause it’s vital to see -
you may be a coin fresh from the mint to me
but in this garden you’re just another scattered seed;
of no exceptional value nor above decree.

And your mother and your father are no towering trees
despite what your admissible awe leads you to believe.
Like most of us they’ve accepted that they’re more like weeds,

so it’s about time you embraced humility
and recognised you’re just a puzzle piece;
a servant to sunlight and gravity;
a grain of sand at the will of the sea.


First post in a long time. Writers block is an anus.