We are the seeds of our own evil
We can choose to feed the seed until it keeps growing
Or we can choose not to feed into the evil
Because once that seed is planted
It will take more effort to rid of the evil,
Than it was to plant.

a plant grows towards
the sun
as we grow towards
happiness
but the sun is 93 million miles
away
and happiness is out of reach

over the years,
i've collected images
of various escapades
all thrown away
when they thought
no one was looking.

i've listened to cries
hiding beneath their
ringing laughters
and tucked those tears
away in clear bottles
for safekeeping.

i've helped mend
battered hearts
& fractured souls,
then whispered comforts
about dreams & hopes.


i have done all those and more.


and now,

i want to know
if a song can rise from
the ashes of a broken life.

I have a basil plant
with some lovely, emerald leaves
crowning 3 strong, thick columns
in an off-white, ceramic ***.

Decorated with delicate foliage, hand-painted
in rust and green,
how it glows in the sunshine
on the tiled kitchen window sill.

The seed of passion is a delicate creature. Water it with to much love, and it will drown. Plant it in the roots of hate, and it will shrivle. The soils of time are the perfect location, yet too much soil, and the plant becomes smotherd. Give a good man all your love, but don't become dependant on him. I believe in you, young flower. Soon enough, you will be a giant bean stalk. All you need is right in front of you; if only you' be smart about how you use it.

The president of the horticulture club
thumbs the violet leaves of a aconite
ignoring the shooting pain crawling on her skin.
The other members glare at her,
waiting for the reaction-
touch the frail plant
and your mouth is sure to set on fire.
The contact she has on the flower
is insanely dangerous.
Potent alkaloids bloom overhead
and she continues to breathe in deeply as if she is trying to swallow
the strong, acrid taste of the atmosphere,
which should have sent her into a frenzy of disorientation
and seizures of her small limbs
but at last, she glances
at the frozen treasurer and spoke calmly, her mouth slouching,
"Are you writing this down?
I want the future of this club
to know to never touch plants
without doing their research."
Then she blinks,
slumps against the bench,
undeterred.

You cut off my hands
You broke my brittle, blackened body to bits, searching
The hands of a healer.

I felt nothing.

The nerve endings no longer crawled with static
Worms dried out in the sun
Lumpy, hollowed tunnels where the monarchs would fly
Now concave, the ceiling falling in, my spirit in disrepair

You grounded me
When you had every reason to bury my remains
But what little life I had took root, worked its way around your wrists
Lazily laced the veins in your arms with the vines

Months to nurse me back to health
Now
Flourishing after the fire.

the plant on my window seal
keeps wilting and wilting,
it's as wilted as wilted could be
oh loving plant
why must you worry
and grow your roots far from sea?
i see your misery
guilt and all
mocking me and pretending to fall
oh lovely plant
do not follow me
for i am walking alone
and you are just a simple tree