You can buy a rose.

You can water it with kindness,

Shower it with understanding,

Rip open a packet of plant food,

And pour out the tiny white pieces of your heart.

The rose will still have thorns.

You can flood it with effort.

You cans spend months cutting off each thorn,

Forcing your into fruition your desire:

To hold a rose and not get pricked

But you will loathe the thing that you now hold

For it is no longer a rose.

You can pluck a dandelion.

It will fly from the crack in the city sidewalk,

Work day and night to purify your air,

And shine yellow in your eyes when you chose to look at it

But it will never bring you satisfaction

For it will never be a rose.