Poem: The Weed

Believe me, this poem was written earlier. Exactly a week ago.

Here is the gist of the ‘context’. Priya wrote to me about how introverts who try to act in their hearts get trampled upon. Better go back to write our poems.

I took her permission to share this conversation. Because she loved the poem that followed.

Roses vs Weeds:

You are an introvert but with me, you’re a forever-blooming flower. Remember this Ashok. Constantly growing. Moving with the wind. We are weeds ashok. Trampled on. But we grow.
A guy used to call me a rose. A poet from LinkedIn. I told him roses are beautiful for a week or two. Then die. Dry up and shrivel to pieces. They get all the attention. Smells so good. Vibrant. For 2 weeks. Then die.
A weed, ignored, trampled, but wild and free, constantly rejuvenating, constantly learning to adapt, constantly growing stronger. Thriving. Living. I’ll be that … ~ Priya Patel

I will share a thought or two here. Weeds have only two purposes — to be persistently wild and get you on a high. Poetry does that. I am, after all, a weed in tweeds. Trampled Tramps. ( Good title, for another poem, maybe.)

Poem: Weeds

Weeds. Smoked to a high.
Just like when we sigh
Relentless in existence
Hatred for their persistence
The inevitable, alternate reality
With verses hiding our pity
They asked me have I smoked pot
Yes. Am just a weed that went through a lot
A discard that you would never bother
Undisturbed we grow further and further
Weeds. We don’t pretend to be a rose
We prefer poetry to flowery prose
We are also the humans dressed in tweeds
We fight with hearts. We are weeds.

~Ashok Subramanian

I love this. Sounds like a song. ~Priya Patel

~Ashok Subramanian, on a high.