[on self image – being a cactus]

for years i’ve believed; every pretty petal comes with thorns of pain,
that someday all of me will be loved the same,
but
what if my petals prick instead of strutting silk?
what if i am but a stem in vain?
if the concept of beauty deems this thick skin of mine unworthy of affection
then why, dear God, why was i built with these imperfections?
no, these thoughts are of a man’s infection,
i deny;
for we all know they are an utterly ungrateful creation,

amidst the storm, i smile at an approacher shrieking a cry,
“ouch! stupid thing with its ugly spines”
– a stark reminder to myself, a horrendous deformation.

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imageDecided to post the first and only insight to my restricted journal. The central idea of my story is ambiguously depicted through the picture above and in order to preserve the essence of poetry and art, the symbols are left open to perception.

{only three out of four seasons exist in this picture}