To be born in a garden,
Full of weed,
full of flowers .
Maybe weeds are misunderstood,
Maybe flowers are over-glorified,
Both products of soil.
An identity one decides,
The pretty privilege,
The unique beauty,
Who is illegal in this soil?
None.
We both rose when we wanted,
You, flower, were chosen,
I had to choose myself.
Struggling to exist,
To be allowed to be,
Not to be reminded ,
That being me,
Is you losing identity,
Why can’t we just be?
Likha Talks 
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