I, Like the Lantana

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I am like the lantana that climbs the hill-

bright, unyielding, fiercely alive-

my colors swirling with stories of struggle,

soft-petaled yet sharp enough to defend.  


I’ve been planted unbidden,

rooted in cracked earth and forgotten corners,

growing where others said I shouldn’t-

a riot of resilience amid the stones.  


Life has left its marks on me-

deep bruises hidden beneath my leaves,

scars carved into my soul-

but still, I rise.

Morning after morning, I shoulder the weight,

pull myself from beds that try to hold me down.  



I am neither saint nor savior

just weathered and stubborn,

holding on wrapped in thorny limbs,

offering what warmth I can,

even as my stems tremble beneath the sky.  


They call me trouble, invasive-

a survivor they’d rather forget,

but I know better now:

being battered doesn’t mean I’m broken.

It means I can burst into color again,

a testament to what persists.  



I’ve cried in quiet corners,

shaken under streetlamps’ glow,

lost my way in darkness-

but I find my breath beneath the moon,

alive after the storm,

rooted deeper than I ever knew.  


And so I remind myself-

I don’t have to be fine, not all the time.

Like the lantana after winter’s cold-

I bloom again, not as I was,

but as I’ve become-

reborn from pain,

daring to turn my scars into colors,

to show the world-and myself-

how resilient I am.  



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