My dreams are like the dried up stalks
and stems in my Garden,
I have not watered them except with
my tears, the dirt is so porous,
what is against us is not for us,
I mean...me and me.

The container Garden has holes drilled
for purposes (use them for what they were intended)
for greater good (hold on, did you say you were offended?)
why let your mood spoil a sunny cloudy freezing windy wet day,
why do you brood??

Question is can you stop,
and do you, know IT when you are,
and is the Garden only the sum of its fruits
Labour on,
Labour long,
Do you need or want to leave anything behind,
for to be remembered, you know Life the Grind
by ME, or do you want to go out like the hikers
walk in the park, and leave no trace.

Get me out of this place,
the four walls have mirrors,
I am sick of looking at
my face, do it for ME.
I can't break though
or breakout, 7 years of bad luck
may be all that I have left,
unless I cut myself on exiting,
like a bird with a useless wing,
flightless, and bleeding tears.

Pulling at my hair like they are weeds
rooted, like pins to grenades going off
in a worn out hollowed stump that
once held a brain.

©ClemC072013