rose grew from weeds.

This is a poem written by yours truly last year, as an assignment for my English class.
I've never posted anywhere but recently reread it and wanted feedback.

The Rose that Grew From Weeds

Born of weeds, die of weeds
Weeds are all you know, breathe, speak
All the same, the lives they lead
The rose that blooms contrasts as meek

Humbled by its intelligence
Defined by its nonconformity
The weeds incapable of finding relevance
In their single intrinsic uniformity

Weeds refute the rose's normality
They find her vibrance downright weird
The rose blooms alone, on its own principality
For the rose's insubordination, weeds reward her with fear

Neither admiration nor acceptance requires the rose
The weeds call it 'enemy' or curse its name
But the rose is beyond wise, and accepts no foes
Weeds grow plentifully and shall not be tamed

Vicious cycles become seasons and processes repeat
Summer, Fall, Winter, Spring
The weeds are defeated but shall never retreat
Weeds never forget the joy misery brings

The gardener grows hasty, tired of plucking the weeds
He no longer anticipates the arrival of his rose
The weeds are overzealous; their damage impedes
The gardener stops looking, his heart grown morose

Rose blooms past the pain, year after year
But the line between personification and reality is drawn
Death of the weed draws nearer and nearer
Are you the rose, or merely the cultivated pawn?


Explanation: At that point in my life, I had gotten quite tired of being ridiculed for being 'weird'. Everyday people would criticize me for something I couldn't control - being me. The more thought it was given, the more it seemed that those who appear 'strange' are only that way as everyone else is the same. There are those who are complacent with idiocy and being completely normal, reinforcing stereotypes and overall being a boring lump of shit. Then there are those who seek more.

:)