Rooted

They poured the filth where green things rise, But roots don’t flinch from soiled skies— They drink the dark and claim the prize. No crystal stream fed ancient trees, Yet still they dance with every breeze, Unbothered by what critics tease. So let them spit their bitter rain, Their words can’t etch into your vein, You’re not so weak to break from pain. The world will scoff, then change its tune, Like clouds that curse the silver moon, But you will rise—and maybe soon. Their poison drips, but doesn’t last, For planted hearts grow firm and fast— The storm will pass, as all storms passed. No dirty flood can rot your flame, No insult carves into your name, You’re more than dust, you’re not their shame. A sprout breaks ground, ignored, alone— Yet someday stands in green full-grown. Your worth is rooted in your own. So let them mock what they don’t know, The filth they throw just helps you grow. You are the seed the stars bestow. ---