The sun is alright
if it fades into night
and starts out with only
little peaks of light.

If the sky turns pastel,
then it's all okay,
but I can't stand bright blue
lasting all through the day.

With raindrops on my window,
I have a better view of bliss:
I'd rather have a slight glow
than the sunshine's full kiss.

With its lips on my cheek,
I'm back to the beginning
where the future's what I seek
but the past is always winning.

I never could tan
or really stand the heat
but now like the dry land,
I'm feeling very weak.

Stomped on again,
by the flowers and bees,
I was only just a stem
without any leaves.

I'm finding my way
in each drop of rain,
hoping the grey
can heal the pain.

But it's not right
and I know it:
so much fright
I can't forget.

I'm not actually growing,
I'm just another weed:
without truth showing,
I can't plant a seed

I always think I'm taller
until the sun comes back out,
then I get much smaller
and prepare for the drought.