They put flowers in a narrow vase
Stopping them from spreading
And they do not forget discipline.
Cut clean! Stand straight! Face light!
They adjust the flowers each day, Turn their head,
Press their spines upright,
Remove the ones that bend.
Wilting is seen as a failure
Roots are seen as defiance
They like you best when you 
stay quiet, contained.
This is care, they say.
This is order, they claim.
And when you finally give in, 
Petals bruised, neck too weak
They sigh in disappointment.
Replace you, wash the vase.
They win, yet again, but then,
You were never meant to.
   By Purvi Mahajan 
                            NIFT