Strawberries in the Winter

My momma once said that it was impossible-
That trying to grow strawberries
In a room that murdered light
Was like telling a girl to live without love
Or demanding a fish to breathe midair.

Still, a week later
A pot of dirt found its home
On a desk in that room,
Daring to flirt with the color green.

Everyday a lamp was hit,
Life support was turned on,
And Thoreau was born to fight.

I told myself,
No more would the fat guy need surgery
Just to blend into an ocean of hypocrites
That would tide in and out of his “in security”.
No more would the nerd girl
Need tights that cut her once living legs
Because the boy she’s been watching
Only likes ladies that cost him a dollar,
Possibly fifty cents more
For something he can tell his friends.
No more would the emo boy
Take out wet stained knives
Because people don’t understand that once
A loved one has their face smashed
-Broken against a pavement-
It’s a little bit harder to feel your heart
And all you want is a sign that it’s working.

Because,
If I could do something, so measly “impossible”,
Maybe someone in this world could do the same-
They’d lift up the world to find the lost cat
Just before its owner throws the world down.
They’d give a bit of their lives
To the sound of cry
Before it takes the road to silence.
They’d know what to do with a frown
Rather than spin a whole person
And say “look, there’s a grin”
While they're busy trying to make sense
Of their new point of view.

Another week passed
Within that black room.

Each stalk is one inch tall.