Smoking loops-
Under the moonlight she lay,
Gazing at the stars-
That shined so ever bright,

She felt lonely and pained,
Not because of love,
But because of 16 years of ongoing deprivation,
She had no one to confide in,

A friend would've been nice,
Family would've been better,
But it was just her-
And that stupid orphanage,

She had to cope with her fears,
Had to live with idiots,
People trying to harm her in ways,
Or even people who would judge her,

She tried innumerable times to commit suicide,
But there was no point,
What was she getting anyways,
No one to even shed a tear as they'd take her body away.

The cold wind greeted
the hoarfrost that
evening as white
butterflies started to
fall from the dark sky.
Soon the pearly blanket
was spread across
the whole land.
It sparkled on the milky
moonlight, giving the old
willow tree a wooly gown.
Covering all the roofs,
the fields of corn and wheat,
the tall grass on the meadow.
But then she appeared,
sending fairies to dance on the
frozen lake thus melting the ice.
And with every step that she took,
snowdrops began to bloom.

Grasping in my strength,
My courage seems to spark inside of me,
I need sane and peace-
a chance to be seen,
to be read,
and confided upon,

It's not me,
It's not my ego or temperament,
It's more complicated than this,
I want recalcitrant beliefs to be complete,
I want recognition-
so that people stand by my side,

I want to fight this war alone if I have to,
I don't want to see kids weep,
I don't want the needy to be unheard,
I want change-
prosperity and progression,
I want to be part of this deed,

I want not orphans to be insecure,
I don't want a petrified nation-
weak and restricted to do stuff in terms of fear,
I want to vandalize all walls of abhor-
I want to block out all these second thoughts,

If I have to stand up for my country-
fight for my land;
my soil and its blood,
I shall do so,
No one can stop me from being bold,
At least not threats as far as I'm concerned!

The function of a violet is to grow
out of dead leaves,
turning decay
into itself.
A poem too builds a little sense
from the rubble of life (what branches grow
out of this stony *******?). One and the other
flower according to their nature,
seen by those
who know what they are looking for.

A violet is not a poem,
but the message is the same.