Anology of the Plant

I wish I was a plant. 
Swaying in the breeze.
Not a care in the world 
Would ever reach me. 
Plants never gain
They never have to lose. 
They always look perfect
Even without a muse. 
Plants are always picked
For their beauty
For their stature. 
I am never picked
For I am cruelty
For I am no matter. 
A plant has no fears
And I have many tears. 
A plant is pure
And I have no cure. 
Though, I have hate
And a plant cannot relate. 
Why do we love plants,
If plants cannot love?
Perfection is not real
For perfection does not feel.