Waiting to be picked


She sits among the field of flowers.

Although she’s beautiful enough to sit amongst the first row of roses

She sits near the sunflowers

Facing the sun

Beautifully simple like the white daisies

 

And she waits

And she watches

 

The princes coming in

Searching for their rose

 

She qualifies as a rose

But maybe not as graceful and stunning as most

Still…

She knows she’s a rose that should be upfront

 

But feels more comfortable sitting behind

With the wildflowers

With daisies

And the love and memories of the sunflowers

 

Where it’s warm

Where it’s safe

 

So there she sits

Waiting for a prince

 

They come

And

They go

 

Selecting other roses

 

Some don’t even notice her

Some don’t take her seriously

Some just politely smile and move to the next

Some kick dust on her as they walk on by

 

She wonders

If

She is meant to be only a weed

With an unattainable prince

 

Sometimes she’ll stand up and turn around

To pull up a pauper trying to reach her

But

it’s just to occupy her time

So she lets them go

As

she waits for her prince

To reach out his hand

And pull her up instead

 

She holds her breath

When she sees  a new prince come in

Only to find

He walks past her

And picks a different rose

Yet

 

Again

 

So she plays with the paupers till she’s done

 

And returns to her spot

Waiting

Watching

Hoping

 

Facing the sun

Head held high

With a smile glorious enough to light up a dark room

But cries inside

 

As they keep walking by

 

 

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