I have no green thumb,
the flowers see me coming
and laugh,
the roses are smothered
by the aphids climbing
their stalk;
they pay no attention
to my consternation,
they just balk.

I have inadvertently killed,
green plants and their seed;
no matter how I fuss and fume,
for me, they have no need,
they often seem not to care,
when I set out to ****.

I cannot tend a garden,
no matter how I try,
somehow, they see me coming,
as if to watch them die,
regardless of my sigh.

My thumb is never green,
I can't control my nurture;
they wither on the vine,
look as if they've been tortured.

I must choose another hobby,
before I lose my mind;
a thing that don't mind dying,
as I learn not to be unkind.