The gardener planted flowers within the graveyards of my brain,
Trying the bring life to the parts of me that are dead,
And they sit there silently, drinking up the rain,
Growing everyday and occupying space in my head
They are beautiful and lovely, smiling everyday
But they sip upon the sunlight too,
And I am afraid, I miss the warmth of each ray,
because without them I have turned blue.
Dying so that other things may grow I suppose is not too bad,
At least then I would have a purpose,
and perhaps I would not be so sad.