A Weed

I want to write something beautiful. I want it to drip with liquid inspiration that glitters in the sun as it falls from the tips of my fingers. I want the frost covering my window panes to melt away and expose a green covered world. I imagine the blue sky hovering closely above my head and tiny periwinkle colored flowers grazing my toes as I walk barefoot through their neighborhood. Emerald leaves of grass cover wet brown earth. There is no broken glass here to cut through my callouses. There are no broken hearts here to remind me of another time. My nature grows over the memories of uglier surroundings. A weed is beautiful here. It suffocates my rationality, but I have no will to pluck it by its roots. I don't want to evict this weed like some common criminal. He is an exceptional law-breaker, possessing a way with its unspoken words. What good does it do to exile him from my world? I know it will come back, despite my best efforts. This weed will push through the dirt once more, stronger than before and more tightly clung to my earth's floor. The frost will come and go, but the weed will continue to grow. I am not a fool by allowing it to stay, I simply want my world to be green.

The Beginning

So it took me a long time to decide whether or not I wanted to start another one of these. How much do I feel like sharing? I'm usually all about the concealing. But in the end I want to write and I have been slacking, my fingers no longer crack from the brittle clenches my pen was held between. I miss this mild discomfort, so it seems, and so I am starting this to kick my ass back into the literary. Although most likely it will be mundane and amateur, I hope every once and a while my words will sparkle with perception.