STORYPOEM

I don’t remember being hit or yelled at, let alone the weather getting warmer.  It wasn’t until I walked outside one afternoon when the sun was at its peak that I almost stepped on a bright little flower, that I had woken up.  How could such a little thing stop me in my tracks, hard? The pain had muted me whole for so long.  For how long? Long.  I was a lemon, sour, wanted to squeeze out the bottled up anguish.  But I could not.  They would see me.

A thought had come to me, that if I could share this with the others, then maybe they would wake up too. I plucked the flower from its root.  I felt a little guilty doing that. Guilt, something we all feel on a daily basis, not because we want to, but because we’re trained to feel that way.  I thought, screw it.  Enough has been sacrificed. This flower will do so much good.

((My words))

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