A soft petunia trampled to the ground,
bloomed again from the undergrowth.
It's beauty far known a marvel in the eyes of many,
yet it was cut and cast aside .
Again somehow it managed to be undefeated ,
slowly it grew this time hesitantly,
A glorious sight of a petunia amongst the weeds,
yet plucked and destroyed for the third time.
"What use is my being here " the petunia sighed with pity
"My presence not wanted ,so they try to finish me ."
"Why bother to be a sign of beauty , my love not reciprocated nor care or empathy."
And then filled with contempt and animosity,
the tiny seed within, watered with hate and envy,
grew and grew into thorns plenty.
No one dare to pluck nor trample it,
steered clear away for the fear of being pricked.
The story of flower that withered away slowly .
Alas now thorns would bloom eternally
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