"Roses are too expensive. Remember me with weeds—they are everywhere, endless, and everlasting."
01
Adonis once wrote: "My anxiety is a spark on a desolate mountain; my love is a green lighthouse."
I shared these words with you.
I said, "I am like a barren mountain, now enamored with the wild grass's unyielding green."
You laughed at me for missing the poetry in life—why care for weeds in an age of blossoms?
I wanted to say you underestimated the tenacity of weeds.
But I stayed silent, for you would never grasp my metaphors.
Just as you couldn't fathom my obscurity, you declared life should be a song of wine, not a whisper of caution.
Yet you forgot—human hearts are islands, divided by tides of misunderstanding.
Some dance in banquet halls, basking in splendor;
Others chase dawns they'll never catch.
So I understand why you dismiss my timidity.
This timidity shapes my veins,
Occupies a third of my soul,
Becomes the armor I wear.
Had you deciphered my silence,
I might have rooted and bloomed in some damp, forgotten corner.
02
When emotions surge, I'm left wordless, defenseless.
My barren mountain stands mute at time's edge,
Overgrown with thorns, strewn with jagged stones—
A relic the world abandoned.
You never saw the fire beneath my stillness,
The life that burns despite the desolation.
So I waited—to be unearthed, to be heard.
Slowly, I grew to love these fractured years,
These chaotic, radiant seasons of the soul.
They say life must roar like summer blooms,
Or cicadas screaming into the heat.
But why chain existence to such clamor?
I crave no grand prologue, no flawless tale.
Let me laugh freely, wake daily to joy.
Let me be the pine, evergreen through storms;
Let me be the weed, unbroken by fire;
Let me be the wilderness—
You may annotate me with a thousand words,
Yet never capture even a shard of my truth.