to the ones who cry.

i am a patch of green grass, you say.
trodded on but overlooked.

you are, but at least you are not squares of green, lush sod. so appealing but manufactured by the hundreds, a conveyor belt product of the milieu.
realistically artificial.
whereas you, the lone patch, rise up and grow towards the heat of the sun.
you beautify and glorify the vast barren dry. you go unnoticed but are significant.
and one day you will be found...
and that loneliness and preservation that you have undergone throughout your life will be cultivated.
love yourself, patch of green.
for it is through suffering that we find the artist within us,
it is through our loneliness that we become stronger,
and it is through these changes we become more beautiful,
and it is through this interior beauty we are found.