rose out of the grime

and filth people threw

out their windows

as they drove by.

They grew up

above the guardrail,

their man-made prison

and stretched their petals

wide, stars in a gray and green sky.



Those that drove

by the road

would have seen a girl walking

among the guardrail and the flowers,

a part of both worlds,

and a bag filled

with a rainbow.

I cut the fragile stems,

while part of me hates taking them,

the way I mourn cutting the ends

of my hard-earned hair.



I arrange them at home

in a vase, pinks and purples

and yellow and white.

These are better than any flowers

money can buy.

They were not chosen

for me, made to be more,

to be better, with chemicals.


They are mine, for they have called to me.