Young mothers with freshly sprung gardens
stuck in a field of weeds,
take their burdens
and ball them up into a life of needs.
Filling their wombs with tender heart beats,
our generation had a plan
that fell into the soil and planted seeds.

Flowers bloom in gardens again,
reflecting treacherous shame:
a mark misplaced in youth,
forever imprinting itself to one's name.
Reality is a saddened truth.

Let your grass grow high;
on your lawns free, beautiful, and green,
while the birds flee, spread their wings and take to the sky
breaking the ranks with empty bellies and faces unclean.

Eventually the garden will need tending
but the young can't raise the young
when their cuts were left without mending
and their songs were left unsung.

Open mouths prepare for their feast
but exhaustion steals the will
while the main course feeds the beast
and the famined become the ****.

When life is a garden in a desert
the roots imbed themselves deep,
until fertility is an act to convert
the rotten fruits that lay rejected, and weep.
Mothers go out and touch the petals
from the flowers of their wombs, untimely torn,
learning the delicacy of roots grounded and settled
in a garden of weeds where their burdens are born.