concrete flowers

13

Sometimes, I can’t do anything else but write. Sometimes, that’s really all I need to do anyways. Even if no one gets it. Even if i’m standing alone. I don’t write for anyone but myself. But maybe one day, when i’m lucky, someone will find it and it will just click. Like i wrote this for you and only you.

“You choose the love you wait for,” he said. Sometimes people say things just to be saying them. Sometimes the words they say have meaning they don’t even realize. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Waiting. How people wait for basically everything. Some people wait to be released. Some wait to be returned. People wait for a love worth it. Some people are nostalgic for a love that hasn’t happened yet. And someone needs to tell you that’s okay. It’s okay.

People are funny & lovely. I hear people i know every day say how they hate people and people got the short end of the stick when it comes to brains. But, I love people. I love how people can change and how they can change you.There are people that come as flowers. Have you ever been walking and stopped to realize a flower is maneuvering its way up through the cracks in the concrete, waving, saying, “hey look at me! it’s the hardest place to break through, but here i am, all five pink petals of me!” I relate people to that because some people can get to you so effortlessly. They can break through your hardest parts like no. big. deal. They make the ugly, gray, hard parts of you a little more pleasant. Those people are easy to love. You don’t really have to try because they did all the effort. They grew in the midst of you and made you more alive.

Then there are people who are bombs. Not bombs. Shrapnels. Some people are just shrapnels. They can work two ways. They can protect you in the middle of war. The ones you need when you are cornered in a bunker with no way out. They get you out alive. But some bombs of people explode while you’re holding them. The shrapnel that could once protect you is now embedded in your flesh and with every piece you pull out, there’s remnants of the explosion. You will never be the same after you get hit with shrapnel. You will carry that battle wound and scar of a person around until you meet your maker. It shocks me. How often the things that hurt looks like the things that help you.

You don’t fight wars with flowers and you don’t plant gardens with bombs. Both are crucial. Both are detrimental. I hope you have some beautiful flowers in your life. I hope you have had some full on wars that have left you to appreciate the flowers. Whichever love you choose to wait for, it’s worth it.

XO,

-B

Brooke_Trent@yahoo.com
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