like a sunflower in a manicured park,

sprouting satellite blooms each time they try to chop it down.

Underneath fancy soils and fertilizers lies the seed, the roots,

screaming, “Grow! Become your sunflower destiny”

even if the plant is trimmed or transplanted.

My seed, my wild kernel, screams to write, to sing, to laugh

until I start blooming again,

start growing with a stubborn rebellion those flowers

that nobody wants to ruin the perfect landscapes

they’ve envisioned for my life.

And it feels so good to grow, to stretch,

to reach toward the sun,

to dance with the wild wind,

and to store that ecstasy deep within

that simple seed, those thirsty roots,

retaining my essence even when

they storm the field with machetes.