it’s a pinch, a fucking pinch i tell you
it’s like asking every tulip to be the finest tulip
with awesome spottings, white and geometric
it’s like begging each rose to look about
to smell the roses, or take a glance at them
at themselves, the beautiful red flowers
or like telling them to aspire, or see in spirals
the twirls and shades of the finest rose
and to say “go there,” “to be is to be there”
ah you’re all wrong, we flowers are here
yes held by mere sticks and near-ground branches
a little good, a little bad, but holding us here
and i don’t mind it, i think it’s rather fucking nice
my shades, my shape, my branches
yeah that rose is fancy too, but what?
does that flower not look down to me?
thinking “oh, look at their stems so green
so near the ground, the ground i’ve only seen
that rose there knows the tulips,
that rose probably laughs with the tulips
tells jokes with the tulips, about being red or white
and probably of me above their heads
with so little water above their lines
those flowers know fine, when i only can shine
it’s a pinch, a fucking pinch i tell you!”
even to be free in a garden is to be bound!
if i must worry about who is to get watered!
i want to bloom in a world where mediocrity
is what to be, the sound of friendships, rose-hips
one rose, a a stream nearbye, no wilting
to teaching, nothing to uncover, only safe-cover
stories with old family, a drink, a few drinks
to bloom awakeness and do it all again
not a flower ontop, but a flower with friends
