Growing just where I struggle, they thrive, taking some of the water intended for me.
One day I will be a tomato, and damn it, this ____ is drawing from me something I want. I curse the wind, Mother Nature, and even God. Must I befriend meanwhile, this vagrant? Usurper of my moisture, squatter of my ground.
I longed for cleaner landings, says the weed. Why must I share my thirst with a peasant? Common vegetable. Good for nothing but the table of a beast.