Quiet Revolution

I planted words in the cracks of the sidewalk. No one noticed. They grew anyway— tiny green defiance against the gray.

I sit on the curb and watch life rewrite itself under my fingertips, fingers sticky with forgotten rain, palms pressed to concrete that never asked for anything yet holds everything.

Each syllable I planted is a scar I let bloom, a memory I refused to swallow, a whisper I screamed in the dark while the city slept.

The weeds between the bricks aren’t polite—they push, they tear, they taste of rebellion, of stubborn blood that refuses to dry. I bend closer, trace the edges of their green fury, and feel something tremble deep inside me, something that says: “I am still here. I matter.”

No one will ever notice how small acts can fracture walls, how silence can roar louder than a crowd. And still, I plant. Still, I bleed life into these cracks, because even if the world forgets my touch, my defiance will root itself in the bones of this street, and maybe, someday, someone else will kneel and feel the pulse of it, and understand that beauty, like rebellion, cannot be ignored.