Falling Short from the Wall.

box flower

A delicate white flower,

Hidden at the forefront of a building,

Beyond the road, below the windows, beside the wall,

Began to peer out from its’ grasses of innocence.

This budding flower, knew not its purpose;

Only that all was not what it should be.

This imaginative flower, knew not the sun;

Only that it should not be cast in shadow.

This mindful flower, knew not of the people behind the wall;

Only that the voices should not be consistently sullen.

So it scaled the side of a cold, concrete wall-

a manifestation of a worldly curiosity,

And sprouted towards a light of answers:

Of enlightenment.


A delicate white flower,

Who remained unaware of the fact that light,

In large sums, may squelch an unprepared victim,

Consistently climbed towards its’ goal:

To find its’ purpose, its’ light, and the line of transparency,

between it and the world behind.

Yet, the higher this ambitious, little flower grew,

The farther it had to fall.

With determination the flower spread its thin vines

Around each cement block, and climbed towards the light-

Which was emanating from inside.

Once this hopeful flower reached the window it was forever changed.

It found everything for which it was searching-

Its’ purpose, its’ light, and the mystery behind the sullen building.


A delicate white flower,

Who had nothing but hopeful ambitions to find a wonderful world,

Was shocked.

There were hundreds of flower corpses

decorating a lifeless casket.

In pews sat people dressed in black,

sniffling from their singular starking loss within the box.

This hardened flower noticed a robed man,

And heard him talk of religion- of a god;

And the blubbering people, sullenly rejoiced;

Claiming their single corpse could now move on-

to the golden light that it somehow deserved.

No one spoke of the hundreds of dead flowers surrounding the casket,

Whose purpose was to live to be slaughtered,

All for a fucking convenience of the living.


A delicate white flower,

Now utterly angry and downtrodden;

blankly stared at the horrific scene that lay before it.

The flower was disgusted at how one life could matter,

and the hundreds could not.

These beautiful flowers were a martyr for decoration

And lynched because their beauty did not match those in the pew.

they were viewed as less than the life

That matched the others in the room.

Suddenly, the robed man moved towards the window

That was protecting the disturbed flower.

The man removed the final barrier,  

simply plucked the flower from its life,

And placed this flower in among the masses.


So here lies:

A delicate white flower,

Once full of life, light, and innocent wonder,

Now doomed to spend eternity in the dark-

With one life that mattered,

And the lives of its’ brothers and sisters that fell short,

Of deserving a better purpose

From those already born with theirs.

//a reflection on the fact that it’s 2016 and racism still fucking exists//



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