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.