You see yourself as something of a dandelion don't you? Here I am, you think to yourself, with roots planted resolutely between two slabs of concrete, completely petal-less and without a single admirer to my name.
Roses are red, you recite, and violets are blue. Roses say, I adore you, you make my heart skip beats, make me wild. Violets are a delicate love, but they say, I am constant. I am forever.
Dandelion, you feel as though you are not capable of either of these loves. Not capable of passion, or tenderness. You are not cultivated in gardens, or on displayed in china vases. Your scent is not bottled and worn out on special occasions. You are not pressed in dusty novels, to be flipped back to with fondness at a later date.
This is why you sit there and think to yourself, I am but a weed. But can't you see that you are so much more than that? My dearest wallflower, my dearest friend, you are the only flower in the garden to which we entrust our wishes, hopes, and dreams. Don't you see, you're not meant to stand so steadfastly in the corner like you do, you are meant to fly and float, and dance, and travel where the wind blows you, carrying with you the secret desiers we are all too afraid to speak aloud. You are brave and loyal and free and because of that you have a beauty all others envy. It is because of this beauty that you are able to flourish in the bitterest of winters when all the other flowers have withered and died.
See yourself for what you are. You are a survivor, and you are beautiful. And it is my secret wish, the wish I hope for you to carry with you as you leave your sidewalk prison, that you see how very special you really are.
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