Poem: Dying Roots

“Without roots, a tree wouldn’t live,”

They say.

“They are the structure, What gives the tree importance,”

They say.

Then why do I have this utter need to tug at my roots

Rather than accept them?

See, my roots Haven’t grown in until the age of two.

I had no garden to show to this newer world

Upon entering it;

And I don’t remember being told in the womb

How this world would be a lot less comfortable.

Every seedling is the same

Before it emerges out of the motherly soil’s caresses,

The only place where no one could hurt you

Or poison you with choking fertilizer

For being different.

Why did my roots ever have to exist

By leaving that deep, brown comfort?

Why did they have to curl in different directions?

Couldn’t they have been straigter

Like the majority of the blonde roots and

Blue petals in this scary greenhouse?

“Strangle me chemicals!”

I cry.

I don’t want to shine and stretch to the sun.

I don’t deserve any loving moisture.

I just want the curls to stop.

Just stop them! Please!

I would rather be pretty than grow naturally.

My branches are my only shields to avoid the fact

That my roots

Were a curse.

This structure had to be a curse. I

have to avoid the glaring.

Including the glaring of my own leaves

When viewing my own

Stupid,

Ugly reflection.

Would it be bad to ask someone to clip me

Already?

Heavenly gardener,

Clip me from the Earth’s grip

So I can be finished with this grounded pain!

I’m pretty sure It would hurt a lot less

Than this.