On Writing Poems with the Toughness of Weeds

In the morning, I opened the half-opened window and a strange smell came to my face. With the breath of midsummer, I walked barefoot on the fragrant path full of weeds, blowing a slow cool wind, which made me feel calm and naturally stared at the weeds. I don't sincerely admire the weeds in the wildfire. They have never been completely consumed, but they have grown taller again in the spring breeze. How can I describe your charm with my blunt pen? Weeds are swept by strong winds and eroded by heavy rains, so you are not afraid of danger. I am proud of the weeds in the wind and rain. How can I show them to you in my own way? Maybe weeds are a kind of spirit, a kind of quality is an indomitable and persistent spirit, which will always inspire me to keep moving forward. Why are you afraid of the storm? Hold your head high even if you are slim. Despite the thunder and lightning, he stood proudly and angered Tianyu. Stand back, face suffering and persevere! Have a bad reputation, hide in the wilderness, do what you can, and strive to sow green. When the autumn frost fades, it stays dormant. Although there are no beautiful flowers, what can compare with them? Waiting for the coming year, driving the east wind, the mountains are green. -I want to use this poem to commemorate dear Mr. Lu Xun's "Weeds (A)". The wild growth of weeds is not the abandonment of my soul world, but the shrinkage of the desertified spiritual area, which makes me think about novelty every day, such as leaves. Wei Zhencao, who has bright eyes and fine eyes, has a stem-like winter vacation. Every tree has blazing sunshine. Weeds have grown above the height of my soul. I am very fragile. I don't try to be brave. I won't make trouble in front of my opponent who can't win for a while. I bow to the wind. Like a soft clam, I crouched in the shell, even when people looked at it. It doesn't matter if it ends up as waste. Others had better forget my existence. I constantly secrete hormones of creation and development in the torture of self-destruction. In memory of Lu Xun, you have many dreams, many dreams occupied by weeds. Looking at the kite under the blue sky in Beijing in winter, you are sad that you are still alive. You always take death as the topic at dusk, let the wandering souls accept masculinity, and let the peach blossoms in Longhua hide your pen and bones in the ruins and barren graves. I am glad for Ah Q's masturbation, and pray for Sister Xianglin, and pray for sesame seeds in the gap of the platform to fall into the mouth of the sour scholar. In the moonlight, you are a wild elf, but you look up at the driver's back and compete with the mad dog for treasure with your unique voice. Finally, her voice became hoarse, and she couldn't say goodbye to her lover, so she slept in the beauty's eyes.