The Watermelon

They say I'm a woman,

But I'm just a girl,

A pile of dirt,

A heap of untouched earth,

Until the day the farmer came,

In the cover of nightfall,

Where no one can disrupt his work.

His shovel tore the dirt apart from the inside out,

Reaching into depths unreached until now,

Forcefully laying the dirt flat and patting it over and over again,

His finger-like rake digging into the dirt painfully,

Making neat, perfect rows,

Leaving his mark for all to see.

The farmer planted his seed into the hole of the soil,

And then left for better pastures,

While muttering, "The grass is always greener on the other side."

Even without the care of the farmer, the seed still grows,

Growing faster than I ever could.

I hate how this selfish seed does not ask MY consent for sucking the nutrients from me.

I hate carrying this watermelon month after month,

When it supports on these thin vines of mine.

Sometimes I'm not sure if this sprout is a weed or not,

And I just want to pull it from its dark patch and lose it forever,

But how will I know of its sweetness if I did?

They say that God does not tolerate the destruction of his creation,

But what if naked Adam and his snake pressured Eve to take a bite of the sinful fruit?

The farmer was the one who dirtied his own hands.

They say that it will grow, rain or shine,

And should be nurtured until the count of nine.

They say I'm a respectable woman,

Mother Nature would be proud.

But I'm just a weak girl,

Struggling to hold a watermelon.

Momma always told me not to swallow the seeds,

But how was I supposed to know it was hidden in such sweetness?

The seasons have ended,

It's harvesting time.

The watermelon is crushing the dirt.

Harvesters with their special tools,

Come to root it from its patch,

Cutting the vine,

Disconnecting the dirt and fruit forever.

Now the watermelon can ripen on its own.

I'm standing in the farmer's market,

Waiting for it to be stickered, branded, and weighed,

I'm happy to see this fruit is perfect in its skin,

Unbruised, unsoiled, untouched.

I hope the next home will relish your sweetness,

Enjoy the inside I never got to know.

I hope you're not left to rot like the other unattended baskets of fruit,

I hope you continue to be tended for until the day where you, too, 

Can plant your own seeds and start your own patch.

Meanwhile, I'm still a pile of dirt,

Now a barren wasteland,

They say I can no longer be a woman,

I'm sorry for being a girl. 

Reviews

[cycy]

My gosh young lady..you are talented beyond description. i honestly just dont know what else to say. i love how you tell your stories through your poems and use different figurative speech to portray these painful events. its such a sad story for any girl to have to go through but yet you tell it in such a beautiful way.you always find a way to make the words somehow less painful but without losing the true meaning of the story. please keep sharing dear...you ooze so much talent.cant wait to read more of you work, this one is definitely going to my favourites, this is what poetry is truelly about.

[Crystal Heart]

AWW thank you =D If you like my poetry, I would suggest reading "The B***h", "An Ode To My G.I. Joe", and "Two Sides To One Coin." They are written in a similar style.

[cycy]

alright dear..i'l do that hey..just that most of my time is taken up with work and school but when i have a free moment i can't resist a great poem :-)