Weeds

To him,

I am a weed

The kind torn out of the garden

By the gardener

To make room

For the rose

That blooms in array

that impresses the neighbours

That never dies

Just shrivels

Because all that is beautiful

Never dies

But the weed is not a rose

The weed gets picked from the garden

Not out of love

Not for its beauty

But for its disgrace

A weed

Will never bask in the sun

It can only

Disappoint