I stare at the flower as it sways in the wind. It’s not alone. It has others swaying around it. First it swings back and forth with the breeze and they follow. They know its every move, they watch it, wanting to imitate it without fault.
It is red and delicate to these flowers, something they admire and attempt to gain themselves. It is beautiful and petite, not too small, not too big, perfect. Noticed.
I am but a weed, swaying in the same wind, doing the same movements, yet I am unoticed. I grow like the rest of them. The same soil that births it, gives me life too. I am warmed by the same sun. The same cool and refreshing rain, drops on me the same as it does on it. Yet I am not pulled for the same reason.
Why do I look like this and it like that?