I often hear of roses grown from concrete—
forgive me if I find it difficult to celebrate the bloom.
Most are simply torn back down by weeds,
their seeds deemed undesirable, scattered,
planted in infertile
soil spoiling any opportunity
to exceed what they’re perceived to be.
Uprooted.
Petals never plucked, never considered good enough for
He loves me, he loves me nots.
How quickly the world forgets their worth—their strength.
Now, all they see are damaged leaves and bruised stems.
Left in shops on Valentine’s Day,
left outside of pots,
mocked by the transparency of greenhouses.
Left to stare longingly through crevices of this concrete
made famous by those who never had to escape it.

At 21, I began working at a group home;
equipped with nothing but arms and a few poems,
my heart became home to 11 children.
Cleaned, clothed, and fed them the way they needed,
the way I needed.
2 years later, that home has expanded.
I’ve watched through the windows as those original 11,
clutching their life in shoe boxes and Glad bags, left 1 by 1,
only to be replaced by another child with no place to be a child.
This system is no place to be a child.

Paradoxical as it may be, a group home, more often than not, is anything but.
We say we want life, but close our eyes to the living.
We praise the roses grown from concrete, but never question how they got there.
Never intervene when we see seeds falling through cracks.
We romanticize the struggle so much that we’ve stopped
trying to prevent it and started participating.

Do not glorify the single rose grown from concrete
and ignore the bouquet beneath.

poetry-magazineConcrete

Concrete