Weeds

There is a vine

Growing through

My window

Curling slowly

Onto the walls of

My dark bedroom

It is alive and growing

And green and lush

Although it is just

A weed and does

Not produce grapes

To make wine for

Me to drink down

With my self pity

But it keeps growing

And it wants

To show me

That no matter

How dead I feel

I am alive

Even if I feel like

A stubborn weed

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