What am I?
I’m a beauty of a plant bought by my master at a discount grocery store in Leipzig, Germany.
I sit in a white plastic bucket with a hook for hanging outdoors, but I don’t hang,
I sit, and listen.
On the top shelf of a cheap black plastic tubular bookcase.
I was placed on a balcony in an X- low rent socialist apartment complex in X-DDR, Eastern Germany.
Luckily, the inner courtyard is full of trees, grass, bushes, plants, and flowers.
If I had eyes it would be a decent view.
I don’t know if I’m male or female but I do know I would like to produce something called berries;
It feels like my mission in life…
I have just started to plume.
I assume, small pink-ish buds,
flowers which feel rather feline,
so maybe I’m female…But let me repeat myself cause I’m under stress: I can’t see.
I am, however, silent.
So I let my bright pinkish flowers
call out to nature. Out they come.
I let my sweet perfume
drift and waft in the breeze
and It calls to the bees
to pollinate me.
I dance in the breeze,
with these leaves of green.
My need to attract-
I am calling every day,
in my own quiet way…
It is now July and I have not produced one- single -f-ing berry!
Damn, ok. berry season is over now!
My flowers are slowly dying,
withering, blithering and shriveling,
brown and black, spotted.
Falling down, floating down ,slipping-down
I am so sad
Out I push more flowers, just to get some sun.
The sun brings voluptuous
soft untouched velvet petals,
Red and green soft
blown by the wind and… off and down they fall, away they go…
Some of my leaves have died,
My master plucks them off me and throws them over the balcony!
Some fresh flowers fall to the floor, having never ever been seen …lying on the cold dirty concrete floor.
There are a few maggots too.
I sit deep now, fully in blossom
Petal flowers open to all admirers.
In full glorious bloom, righteous and tall.
In end summer gloria.
Me, my seducing nature,
only to have God turn her back on me!
I have not produced one single strawberry!
I cannot hold my leaves up much longer.
There is a droopiness to me.
I languish with droop and desire of what may not ever be…
I no longer call myself a giver of berries.
And I hate nature, with her secret selfish shitty silences, and her dirty denials.
Herhis pleasure at my begging.
At least my owner can scream and rave …and he does scream and rave,
and overeat! I hear him in the bathroom,
a fat man in the bath tub.
I must sit, in quiet acceptance of my insults and wilt in shame,
I’ve been embarrassed at my pride,
at my desire, my nature
My growing in the sun, so in need,
so cold, so alone at night when the sun leafs me.
My stupidity and hope.
Only to be unfulfilled and
jealous of other berry givers.
(Updated! 1 month later)
Good God Almighty
Secret Service bees must have come
seeing red, and greedy
after a late-season binge.
On September 11th,
I gave birth, finally
to two of the sweetest strawberries,
one green and one red
Everything has changed me now
Oh how shallow I was before, needy.
At long last I am a berry giver!
A Berry Giver!
but, my master is eating them all,
that greedy fat pig…that bulbous banbitchewit
Rips them right off the stem.
He’s eaten everyone
It is now October
and I am still bearing fruit…
Oh how wrong was I?
Oh how wrong I was
I’m a late bloomer
a latecomer, but a producer who now is not trying to keep up with the Jones’
Red flowers, small berries, green leaves, yellow leaves, white flowers, brown dead stalks
how was I so hopeless?
How was I so hopeless?
Never give up