The Prettiest Flower

The prettiest flower is 

Is always picked first

From someone's flowerpot 

In their kitchen,

Or their bedroom,

Or the desk by the entrance,

To be marveled,

To be admired,

And ultimately forgotten

After satisfaction is reached.

No one asks for the flower,

"Where is your home?" 

'On the other side 

Of the sea, I suppose

Would be the answer

But why I wouldn't know,

Because I've never asked.

I've asked the seller

And they name some country

I had never been to

Or cared for,

Because it wasn't my own

But now that flower is popular, 

Common place in any flowerpot,

To the point that the flower

Might as well have called here

It's home, Does it want to?

I don't know, I haven't asked.

Overtime

The flower grew less admired

And became stuck mostly 

Amongst poorer homes,

Fighting for water and affection.

Desperation wilts the prettiest flowers,

And overtime,

The flower became vilified,

It's beauty hadn't diminished,

It's demand had,

Maybe if we talked 

And understood each other

Demand will be supplied

And it's beauty recognized,

But I wouldn't know,

I haven't asked.

A few flowers escaped,

Back into more esteemed houses,

And they were viewed as pretty

Once again. The others 

were different- in some way,

I don't know- but those

Found in richer environments

Were the good ones. That is

What the news tells me

In it's multitude of mixed weeds,

With mixed meanings

And mixed motives

Maybe I could see if they were

Different, if I asked, but I didn't

The prettiest flowers are always picked,

And they are always neglected.

The prettiest flowers are everywhere,

Worthy of admiration and respect,

But I wonder sometimes,

Whether the dream to speak with

The prettiest flower is just a dream?

I mean

Could I ever understand a flower?

And I could,

Could I help others understand its words,

And could others,

Learn to understand prettiest flower too

Or will we forever

Just watch each 

Till we all wilt away....