A flower is beautiful, gently swaying in the breeze, her flowers polished, not one leaf out of place. She gracefully sways in tune to the song of summer, the wind, the rain, the sun. A weed grows strong and straight and tall, ignoring the breeze and bowing to no one, nothing. She pays the price for her pride, scorned and shunned by all but the other weeds. The weeds act as one, standing together out of necessity, if not out of friendship and love. You see, they need each other. They need the solidity of a union, the strength in numbers. Each one has the words and the knowledge to do whatever they want, from conducting a beautiful orchestra to ending world hunger. With the right instructor they can do anything, and although not boastful, they know it. The flowers have the same potential, although they don’t apply themselves. Some simply don’t care, others are afraid to fail, and still others distract themselves from what matters. I say this because I do not refer to the flowers who have stalks and blooms and roots, I refer to those above the ground, the ones in beautiful dresses with perfect hair and laughter. These flowers, like the true flowers, are beloved for their beauty. They are given the best food, the kindest words, and the softest touch. They grow slender and perfect. The human weeds, though, they get nothing nearly as good. They are put down, shunned from “Proper Society”. They might not have perfect hair, they probably don’t give a pile of spit about makeup, and it shows that they don’t keep up with the extreme latest trends. The weeds, however, are also the ones who help up a stranger who has fallen, who read every book for the fun of it, and who don’t need 20 “friends” to complete their life. Maybe she hasn’t been asked out on a date in a year, and maybe he can’t dance like Michael Jackson. Then again, maybe he held a door for someone else without getting a thank you in response, and was perfectly fine with it. Did you see it when she gushed about the gift her little sister got her, a clay lump painted like a rock? A flower frowns down upon anything less perfect than itself, and then tosses anything more perfect, afraid its grace dims its own. Who, then, has grace? The flower, who is perfect in every physical way, but whose heart shines not at all? Or perhaps the weed, who, while coarse and unrefined on the outside, on the inside is a pure diamond, glittering and waiting for a chance to show itself. Who, then, shows elegance? The one who can dance and dance for hours without falling or missing a step, or the one who dances horribly, yet does it with a pure and true smile on her face? The opinion is up to the reader, but keep in mind that Beautiful is a state of mind, soul and heart, not of hair, clothes, and makeup.