I have a garden
Full of words
That thrive
On suffering,
Flowers blooming
In my pain
Sprouting with
Each new wound

I wander in
To water them,
Eyes filled with
Melancholy,
And reap fresh tears
To quench their thirst
That they might
Grow for me

So when they've
Blossomed fire bright
As my agony
Worsens,
I organize them
Neatly
Into stanzas,
Lines and verses.