A Single Blade of Grass.

Cold, stepped on, cut down, violated in everyway.
At the bottom of your perspective at all hours of the day,
Something for you to walk on, something to cut in half and leave for dead.
That’s all I’ve ever been, and all I will ever be to you.
Not that you could tell me from any one else.
Surrounded by millions of nameless imitators, brainless unworthy clones of me.
I’m the alpha, the one that matters, but not to you.
You don’t even give me the courtesy of a downward gaze when you’re mashing me
with your bare feet,
giggling about how good I feel on your bare skin.
What if I told you I hate the way you feel against my skin,
what if I shared with you how lonely it is when everyone looks just like you,
but no one thinks like you, what would you do?
You’d leave me to die when the cold hits, just like you do every year.
Buried in the beautiful blank canvas of white, you forget about the brown bitter being sitting below,
clinging to life for as long as possible,
so you can slide down a hill ass first of a piece of plastic,
so you can make a human figure out of that cold and white bitterness that is draining
my life force away,
so you can write songs about the cold to sing around a tree that was ripped from my roots.
No one writes songs about grass, but what if grass could write songs?
I’d tell you how angry I get when you let your pets plop down their back ends and do their business in my face,
I ‘d show you how easy it is to get bitter when you’re denied the right to grow wild and free,
because someone bigger than you with a sharp bladed machine decides that long isn’t the look he wants for “ his lawn”
I’d scream at you for choking me with poisons to kill the insects, which I need to survive.
I might even let you in the on the biggest secret of all,
I absolutely hate the color green.
I’ve seen you walk around with four different hair colors and styles a week,
while I haven’t gotten the chance to change mine since I was born.
You think I don’t get sick of the way I am?
I have to see it all around me, all the time, no matter where I look.
Because no one is unique where I live,
No one.
But what if that could change?
What if all it really takes is one individual voice,
one small heart-filled cry of anguish and yearning for revolution?
What if one single blade had enough self-loathing and determination to bring about a new world order?
It all starts with a single action you know.
So next time you feel like the world is crashing in on your shoulders,
like everything around you is redundant,
like anarchy is a lost art,
like the brain dead clones of your life won’t stop making eye contact with you,
when you feel just plain stifled from your own opinions,
give a glance downward.
Amidst the green imitators,
the brown underachievers,
and that pitiful patch of crab grass you‘ll neither acknowledge or fix,
you just might find a glimmer of hope.
One single blade of grass,
but more important that that
one single blade of grass with a bad demeanor
and a purple tip.
Rock on.