Roses once red,
Are now good and now dead,
Violets once blue,
No gone, left and rue,

My garden is empty,
No poor and unseen,
My garden once temptly,
Now worn and obscene,

Winters cold,
Did its damage,
Flowers once bold,
The chill did not manage,

My roses they bleed,
And my violets they’ve wept,
My garden by uncared,
And now by unkept,

My garden demolished,
By colds misdeed undone,
And unpolished.

Fruits will never bare,
Because of lack of care.
My flowers they’re gone,
Demised by weeds of wrong,

My garden it’s life,
Damaged by life’s strife,

My garden of Body,
My garden of mind,
My garden it bleeds of a past unkind,

My garden of soul,
My garden of me,
This garden is dead yet you cannot see,

“How are you?”
They tend to ask,
“Are you okay?”
But do they really see as they in my presence bask?

See the dried up tears,
I cried long ago,
The now cracked planes that once flowed,
Weeds now left where once flowers blossomed,
A garden now dead and left darkened,
A grave of dead emotion now here lies,
A mind, a heart all feelings do despise,

You don’t really feel or care,
You don’t really know or wish to understand,
You don’t truly want know what I have to bear,
Your imaginary concern just leaves me bland,

Why pretend to want to know my sorrow,
Defend to know this heart that’s hollow,
You’re just another pain,
Another smile strained and
Just more energy from me drained,

“I’m fine.”
A potent deceit I tend to give,
“Yeah, Of course I am ok!”
A tasteful lie they don’t see nor want to,
They tend to believe.