A symbol of love, an expression of love's beauty, an offering and gift of love's promise, a present picked for that love...hmm, what do you find when you go looking in the dirt? There is, and always will be weeds and crawling critters amongst the earth, but anyone that has picked flowers, picked from the dirt. How is it, that that is forgotten or lost on the mind, the things we deem so beautiful and symbolic to love, come from the very place we scorn as dirty and beneath us. The same place we all came from. A field of flowers is just a land of dirt decorated by floral wonders. So why continue to cast such a dark light on prison, not all things that grow in here are insects and weeds, there are many flowers too! Albeit, wild flowers, still flowers all the same. I've known and conversed with a few roses, lillies, violets, hydrangeas, sunflowers, and the like. Beautiful symbols of love, beautiful gifts once offered their fair share of love, unique expressions of gratitude from love- waiting to be seen and picked out from the dirt-to which has become their blessing and curse. Yet, home is home, we cant always change our background or out landscape our environment, but we can still rise and only hope to be seen. Seen as flowers and more than our environment, though gracious praise of the environment that blossomed the flowers we came to be. What will it take to bloom and be clean in your eyes, because it seems the world believes that you cant find love nor a good seed and flower deserving to be plucked from it's prison. In the light of the sun, I try to believe that I'm more than this dirt that surrounds me. Although I still may have just as much a purpose in prison-the dirt, as out in the world one day. I feel the sun's light and heat calling to me, but the heavy shadows and shade of my past and public opinion for the most part-does more to trample submerge and bury my growth, than it does to unearth me into someone's loving graceful vase or hands of freedom space and opportunity. Freedom space and opportunity to where I may be able to flourish and outdo my potential of merely outside accolades that you deem as beauty. Thriving from the nectar and veins pumping deep within me that takes the form of passion ripe with promise, channeled pain, dedication, and direction. Can a Wild Flower dare to dream? Will you ever see the Flower, or forever the Dirt? Maybe the next time you buy or receive flowers, it just may hit you to consider where that flower came from, and the road it took to arrive in front of your eyes exactly at that moment in time. Every gift has a direction, every flower has a past, every present tells a story and until that is realized, perception will remain as hollow and surface as an empty vase-waiting to be filled by flowers that may sit seen yet unseen-until they decay, like most failed dreams and unknown potential. Same as you free people
RUSSELL
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