baby dandelions

golden like the sun

blooming in the spring

till they turn to fuzz

flying in the wind. 

what our parents call weeds

what we called flowers when we were young. 

seems like such a sweet song

but it's never to be sung. 

making up bouquets on cool summer nights 

then blowing out our wishes while watching them take flight. 

a memory of our childhoods

but when the sun comes to rise

we see the truth

beneath illuminating skies:

what we thought were flowers

beautiful, bright and bold

were just weeds in disguise

their story untold.

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ninestars

MD

15 years old

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  • Poetry

    By ninestars

    endless spring

    I opened the door to put up the Easter gel clings, 

    and was greeted by my childhood.

     

    Children were playing outside, running

    across the lawns on the bright

    spring evening.

     

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  • Poetry

    By ninestars

    the weight of what ifs

    The black and white tapestry on my ceiling

    paints a subtle reflection

    of the personality of my bedroom,

    holding the insufferable weight

    of millions and millions of stars,

    some bright, some dull,

    Read More