“Flower Stains”

The following poem is a favorite of mine. I wrote it a while back, and figured it was a good “get-to-know-me” piece as this blog is at its beginning. Feedback welcome.

Flower Stains

So she called me a flower child
More than once;
A flower child
She called me

The daisies in my hair,
The dreams of dancing
Free, free
Down the sidewalk
Dancing blissfully;
having cheer
feeling free
feeling free
feeling free
for that,
I was called a flower child

The passion inside me
I feel it throbbing
To a rhythm;
The desire to change things
I know could be better,
The desire for peace and for love
To hold up the earth
The desire for open eyes
And carelessness to end;
Just open your eyes
I ask
And for that,
I am called a flower child.

How can that be good?
How, how can that be good?
Don’t label me!
I am my own person
I am different from the “flower children”
The hippies, the druggies,
Right?
I don’t want to be called a flower child!
Don’t plaster that name on me,
Contort my face,
Disable me.
What a disability it is
To be labeled.

But alas, have I not
Called myself a flower child
With admiration
Some time ago
In the back of my head?
With admiration,
With passion?
What does it really mean,
“flower child”?
Someone who is hungry
To move themselves and others
In a positive direction?
Even if it means stepping out
From the circle of safety?
Am I that?
Should I embrace
Who I feel I am,
Who I know I am,

Who only I know
I am?
Who only I know
I am?

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