Crooked and bent,
the petals looked heavily dusted
and kind of crusted.
The thorns are the sharpest.
The sharpest I’d seen, I touched it
and realized I was heartless
cause I didn’t bleed.
I loved it.
I bent over and touched it again.
I wanted to pick it up.
I spent five minutes
debating in my head.
It was a rose that grew in concrete
on the sidewalk of a tiring city street,
but nobody noticed.
I was on my way to the liquor store.
I was ready to get a bottle of Jameson
to drown my hard day.
I guess that’s what the world made of me.
I had 0 faith.
I picked up the rose and took it home with me.
I took care of it and truly nourished it.
I even revived a bit of its beauty.
It inspired me.
I wrote pages and pages of poetry.
I wouldn’t go out.
I didn’t engage in other activities
because of what I had at home waiting for me.
It was a miracle, a life of glory.
It told a great story
until I noticed, it was starting
to wither away
I found faith. I prayed every day,
But I don’t think God heard me.
The rose that grew from concrete
crooked, mean and dirty
died on me.
I cried for days.
I showed up to work late
until I stopped going.
I had a dream
about a man who told me
to keep my head up and smile.
So I did, but I faked it.
I think he knew it.
He handed me something like a seed.
It was motivation
and he promised that I could start
a garden on the concrete
I planted the seeds.
Now, I’m waiting to watch the growth
of my family.
This is for you, Pac rest peacefully
and I will send you my roses.