The blossom looked around at its surroundings and realized, “I’m a pretty flower.”

“No,” the old flower next to it said.  “You are a weed.”

The young bud couldn’t believe it.  “But I’m so pretty. How am I different than any other flower around here?”

The old flower chose not to reply.

“I have petals just like everyone else,” the bud declared.

“True.”

“I am colorful like all the others.”

“True.”

A bee flew in between them and landed on the young blossom.  “Bees like me.”

The old flower didn’t respond.

The young bud was encouraged by the silence.  “ I am so pretty I should be growing everywhere. I am sure I can grow twice as fast as all the others around here. Something inside me just tells me my skill-set is growing.  I will just grow and grow and grow. Soon, all you will see is me because I can grow quicker than everything around me. It will just be me, me, me!  Truth be told, I can feel myself growing as we speak.”

The old flower sighed.  “And that’s what makes you a weed. It’s not your appearance but your overbearance. A dominating flower becomes a weed.”

A little disappointed, the young bud thought about it. “If I promise to control myself, will you let me stay?”

“We will give it a try,” the flower said.

The blossom was relieved and concentrated by chanting, “I will not grow, I will not grow, I will not grow.  I will grow, I will grow, I will grow.”

“Weed!” the old flower exclaimed.

“What?” the young one asked.  “I tried but I can’t help myself. I have to grow! It’s what I’m good at.  I have to be me.  You wouldn’t want me to not be me, would you?”

The old flower didn’t hesitate.  “Yeah, you gotta go.”