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Celestite Jul 2018
I’m in a bit of a situation
There seem to be weeds blooming all across my face
The weeds are red
They are blooming all aross my cheeks
All across my forehead and chin
and even some buds on my nose
I don’t like the weeds
And neither does anyone else
I’ve tried everything to get them go away
but nothing works, and they’ll always stay
these weeds make me sad
oh so sad
and now my tears just water these weeds
I refuse to show the world these hideous red weeds
i have been taught to hate the unwanted
and to strive for perfection
but perfection is something i’ve never known
so for the moment i cannot make these red weeds disappear
and from now on i’ll stop quenching their thurst with my tears
for now all i can do is love them
love these red weeds that cover my face
and hope that one day i’ll find someone who can love them too.
just a poem about acne, because i’m struggling with it and when i feel sad, i write about it.
Brent Kincaid Apr 2016
Spring sneaks by the door to the ghetto.
That's okay, they can't afford the seed.
Trees take too much room from the rentals.
No one saw the end of ghetto weeds.

Ghetto weeds once grew up sudden.
They took the food of those in bloom.
Ghetto weeds we're awful sorry,
But we haven't got the room.

Yesterday a man sold his garden
Bragging how he made such a deal.
Bought himself a high-rise apartment.
Who can tell the fruit by the peel?

Ghetto weeds once grew up sudden.
They took the food of those in bloom.
Ghetto weeds we're awful sorry,
But we haven't got the room.

What about the children of the ghetto,
Do they have the playgrounds they need?
Have you seen the children how they're growing?
Don't they shoot up just like a ****?

Ghetto weeds once grew up sudden.
They took the food of those in bloom.
Ghetto weeds we're awful sorry,
But we haven't got the room.
shamamama May 2019
Pull the weeds, plant the seeds
this is what the garden said

choose what stays
choose what goes

be mindful when you do

the silver oaks darken the sun in the mind
trim the trunks, so light may you find

the bindweed traps the heart
clip the vine, free the art

the poison oak stings your delicate hand
let the goats eat these weeds right off the land

the pompous grass clouds the soul in your eyes
pluck these weeds before they set and rise

the deadweed piles darken your spirit
compost the weeds, lighten your merit

plant the seeds of love, hope and color
water with nourishment, fertilize with wonder
and you will warm the heart of another

and then,

begin again,

pull the weeds
plant the seeds
I feel like my garden has been talking to my soul and I want to share the conversation.
FROM the time of the early radishes
To the time of the standing corn
Sleepy Henry Hackerman hoes.
  
There are laws in the village against weeds.
The law says a **** is wrong and shall be killed.
The weeds say life is a white and lovely thing
And the weeds come on and on in irrepressible regiments.
Sleepy Henry Hackerman hoes; and the village law uttering a ban on weeds is unchangeable law.
Pink Taylor Jan 2010
A farmer, a diligent worker, I am.
Passed down the same employment
The same land, generation to generation
This field has never grown the best crops
But always enough to scrape by
It has always been, to the naked eye,
Filled with weeds
But I labor all day, sometimes in the blaring heat
Pulling weeds and caring for each precious plant
For not being one more **** I have to pick.
Some weeds are deep-rooted and will not pull
And I pass them by
Acres and acres of land with weeds
Harbored off into sections
Singly alone, it takes weeks
To rid one of weeds and then harvest
But the little money I gain back from that
I cherish that much core.
A farmer from generations and generations of diligent workers am I
And this is my story.

As I was working in my field one day a man came up to me
He had a clean pressed black suit
And hundred dollar sunglasses
Well dressed for business.
He asked me, "Why do you work so long and hard with pulling deep-rooted weeds when you hardly get any pay?"
I explained my family's field of generations and generations.
It never gets any better, but hey, it never gets any worse.
I could feel him looking down upon my labor in my family's field of generation after generation
He said to me, "A pretty lady such as yourself should not be working in such heat."
This man, he told me of his fields back home.
He had cows, even. Chickens and horses.
"The finest of the finest," he assured me, "bred from rare and royal breeds."
He told me of a home where I would be cool and looked after and no longer would have to
"scratch such pretty hands working in such a lowdown field."
Well this business man in his clean pressed black suit
And his hundred dollar sunglasses,
He took my hand, looked me in the eyes
and tenderly said,
"It doesn't have to be this way.
Come with me, I will show you."
And I followed him to his red corvette
And we drove into the sunset
On passed the moon
And when we arrived
It was as splendid as he had said.
Fields and fields of green
"All of this is yours," he said, "just stay with me."

And for days I was cared for by him
I spent my time in the cool house
Both of us together
He rarely left, but when he did it was to harvest the field
It had few **** that he didn't bother pulling
Or to feed and care for the prized chickens, horses, cows.
Or to cash the money the fields had earned
Always giving me
Much more than I needed.
He massaged my back and sang me songs
And told me I would never have to worry about anymore weeds for the rest of my life
Let him do all the worrying.
And I did.
And all was well.

That night I awoke with an itch in my throat
That itch turned to a cough and I fully opened my lids
To a thick grey haze that turned at the soft flesh of my eyes
I coughed again and again to sit up and look around the smoke-filled room.
I crawled my way out of my silk-sheeted bed in my silk nightgown and tried to call out
But nothing but tears came from my eyes
I felt my way to the door, touching my money on the dresser and I pocketed it.
I struggled though the flames and the heat of the smoke.
My vision blurry, head light, lungs shriveling, eyes burning, feet cut and scraped from broken glass upon the floor
And as I finally mad my way to the front door
My hand passed over a note taped to the wall in the entry way.
I pocketed this as well.
I rushed out into the cold night air that felt free from the heat of the thick haze
I blinked away the tears in my eyes, took a few breath and cleared the dizziness
I pulled out the note and it read:
"If you survive, I want you to know: I'm sorry."
I continued to cough.
And I didn't bother to blink away these tears.

The police arrived a few hours later.
The house and barn and field burned down,
They were still able to identify the cause:
There was a storm that night and lightening had struck
A tall **** near the edge of the field
By the barn
This **** was big, tall, and deep-rooted.
No one had bothered to pull it.
The barn caught fire first and all the finest of the finest chickens and horses and cows bred from rare and royal breeds
Were laid to wast,
Bones found in the ashes.
The field and home burned at the same rate,
No bones found in the ashes.
And the man dressed for business
In his clean-pressed black suit
And his hundred dollar sunglasses
Was no where to be found.
The police said they would do their best to find him
But I knew they wouldn't do either.

I ran back home in the chill of the night that had once seemed comforting
It bit at my toes and my ears and the tears on my cheeks
It numbed everything else that the protection the silk offered
My rubbed-soft feet found it hard to run more than a mild in the cold dirt and rough rocks
But they ran back past the moon and out of the sunrise,
Coarse and calloused by the time they reached the old farm.
There were now more weeds than ever and my hands had run smooth from not a days work, not a **** pulled so long
And I removed the burnt, torn, frozen silk and bought new sturdy working clothes with the money I pocketed
I looked out upon the old abandoned field of generations and generations of my mothers
And I prepared for the fresh open wounds I would have by the ned of this day
Determined to make this field as beautiful as it once had been I grabbed the base
Of the first **** at my feet.
And pulled.
Delia Darling Sep 2018
As I stand here, outside my work building
stealing a smoke break
I wonder about God and the universe
and how much happier it makes me feel
to believe in other things

That the sun was a running man
chasing the stars in that endless black
run man
run fast
run free
but freedom only gets you
slipping and sliding in circular leaps
around our earth, almost like
a clumsy mouse in a stationary wheel
and these sneaky stars
always one step ahead at sunrise
or at his heels in sunset

My mom’s a Catholic woman
she won’t believe in the running man
her stars are not stars, no
her stars are rosaries in purses and
priest’s words
taught words
holy words
but holy words are also
human words, are they not?
It never made sense to me
that a person could live their whole life
repenting it

But then again,
my dad used to have me work in our yard,
picking the weeds outside
and he let me treasure them in a vase
he never called them weeds,
they were always
dandy-flowers
wishing flowers
wildflowers
but wild only gets you
believing in the sun and
keeping shrubs in vases
All of which suit me, because

In the lonely nights of endless black,
I have the company of my own stars
and when holy words of weeds fall back
I remember that—
wild humans are only wildflowers
Just some random thoughts induced by an insignificant smoke break
Tim Gronek Sep 2013
PULLING WEEDS

Here I sit contemplating the things I have been through
A long list of ugliness mixed in with the good things, too
It reminds me of a flower garden with weeds mixed in
A lot like the beauty of life with an assorted mix of sin

The flowers are calling out to you
Their life depends on what you do
The weeds can drain them of their life
Growing around their roots causing great strife

Just like life if you do not rid yourself of the bad
It can drain you of all the good things you have ever had
So, take the time to check your weeds
Pulling them out to plant your new seeds

It may take hours, days or even years
Your garden is getting full so get into gear
It starts with just pulling one
You will be surprised when you are done

The flowers, just like life, will prosper
Thanking you for making things proper
You see, God knows the weeds your garden contains
He wants you to pull them and start to maintain
Madison Sep 2018
The moths followed the little square
Like he was a flame
The little square wrote a book about his despair
And the moths made a proclaim

The little square didn't like us
So he told the moths to find us, "the mess"
He told them to do it without fuss
'Cause without us his garden would be flawless

The moths came out to his garden
They found me and my kind
And pulled us out with a gun
Treating us like we aren't apart of mankind

We were put on trial by them
And thrown into fire
We were shoved into a room by 'em
And gassed because it was "prior"

Occasionally the moths were bored
So they played hangman with us
This was a game that they adored
All we could do was stare at the hanging carcass

They were our friends and family
They were the only medals we had left
We were too broken to be angry
So we ignored the theft

When the moths got rid of us
They went for the most damaged weeds
That often made us anxious
Because of it some did misdeeds

Some couldn't deal with the pain and fear
So those weeds jumped to the birds
On the floor they left a smear
The smears thought jumping would send them homewards

Though we saw death so many times a day
We were still able to eat and treat people with hate
It was because from our god we have gone astray
Maybe because we were all under weight

In our stomachs prowled lions
Our hunger was so severe
If we found stray scraps we would go for the ****
If you went for the food you were a volunteer

One time we ran out of food
So we complained even more
The moths got tired of our complaining mood
So we ran to a new camp door

We were often moved
We went from camp to camp
Of course we all disapproved
On the house that was based by our stamp

On each of our wrist
Was and inky black stamp
It was on the moths checklist
It was our name in each concentration camp

When we were saved from hell
We were all broken weeds
We couldn't even sleep well
But the ones that saved us answered our needs

The ones that saved us helped end the war
And some were normal citizens
Everyday we are grateful for their loving core
Even if we had great differences

Though the Holocaust made us different
And the memories haunt us
It was kind of a movement
Because now people won't walk into war without a fuss
This poem is dedicated to the Jews that suffered from the holocaust
Dorothy A Nov 2009
We are all a garden
of sorts.
We all spring up
from a single seed.
And like a flourishing tree
or an expanding bush
we can branch out
and multiply
in number and in strength
surrounded by tender loving care,
being watered by others,
paid close attention to
as the gardener nurtures us
to maturity.

We bloom.
We blossum.
Beauty abounds.
Our colors come forth
in a harmony of hues
upon every petal
and every leaf.

But then come the weeds
that choke out our foliage
and wrap around our roots,
our foundations.
The weeds of hatred,
the weeds of bitterness
the weeds of loneliness,
the weeds of shame,
the weeds of fear,
and depression
invade.

Bugs infest our garden
and eat away at us,
tormenting us,
picking away at us,
and the beauty
and produce
that once was the glory
of our garden
has gone away.

Did we do this to ourselves?
We often wonder.
Did the gardener get too passive,
get too neglectul and uncaring
and forget to tend the garden?
Maybe we were not strong enough
to take up the fight,
wilting, fading in the sun.

Yet even a dying flower
produces seeds of growth,
and of renewal,
as a rebirth will come from
its entrance into the earth.
Even the most tragic looking
of sickly plant life
will have a comeback,
a resurrection
of sorts
when golden raindrops
do fall again
like prayers from the sky.

And so it is the gardener
was never asleep on the job,
did not neglect the duties.
And like all healthy ones do
abundant food
shall grow once again
in our garden,
fragrant flowers,
and branches
for the birds to perch upon
when at one time
all seemed dead
and hopeless
and lost.
Sarah Foster Jan 2019
Untouched places. I cannot keep happiness for myself. I have to share it with everyone. A pure place becomes poisoned by their footprints. Memories of them cover the ground in the form of weeds. I could try to tear them from the dirt but what is the use? I bring someone new to **** them for me but no! Their roots are tangled. How will I rip them out now? I try again. If these weeds were flowers this garden would be beautiful. My once safe place is safe no longer. The weeds, they will grow. I will lie down and disappear within them. They were good memories once. When I was young I never understood why my mother plucked them from the ground. When I was young I thought everything beautiful. My mother is still beautiful. When I was fourteen I started hurting myself. When I was fourteen I knelt next to my mother. We compared our ***** hands. Mine look more like hers with every year. Her weeds grew at home. Home was never a pure place. I let the weeds grow and when I left I set them on fire. She envied me for this. She does not know all the places I must pick the weeds from. She does not know I find safety anywhere but there. She does not know I plant the poison. She does not know I invite them there. I do not want the false image of safety. I bring the danger so it comes at no surprise. Imagine your beautiful garden, cared for for years and there! Where did it come from? No. I hate surprises. I know where my weeds grow from. Those **** footprints. But whatever. I'll find another pure place. Maybe this time only my footprints will cover the ground, flowers growing from each one.
Lunar Jun 2014
******
(noun)
1. any undesirable or troublesome plant, especially one that grows profusely where it is not wanted
2. a cigarette
3. ungainly person or animal

the weeds in the garden,
though sometimes unwanted,
sprout from the dirt yet full of life,
little in worth, yet lovely.

the weeds that we smoke,
dangerous to our health,
tasting bittersweet like memories
yet brings us short-lived ecstasy.

the **** of my life,
he was nothing but trouble
that brought about mirth
in my too-perfect garden;
he frustrated the people
who tended to me,
growing back into my life
every time they plucked him out.

unwanted but lovely.
dangerous but lively.
he was my whole definition of ****.
Kairee F Nov 2016
I ran there today
in one of those moments of euphoric need.
I wanted to see the view they told me was so appealing.
I ran there today,
and even though I was accompanied by several strangers,
they were invisible to my eye,
so the lake’s peaceful atmosphere wouldn’t escape me
as sweet classical music whispered melodies in my ear,
a solitary canoe sent soft ripples from its path,
and eyes locked on a view framed by the most beautiful mess of weeds
on top of the hill where I stood.

“This was so much prettier last year.
They need to mow this whole hillside.”


I guess those melodies weren’t whispering loud enough
if I could hear an invisible stranger’s voice.

I loved those weeds.

You know when you see a cluster of friends together
and just by looking at them,
you know that they each have a sense of belonging in that group?
I don’t remember what that feels like.
There are pieces of me that fit into separate puzzles,
but I have not found the one that rounds with each curve
and shifts with each edge so perfectly that I am secure.
So when I look at these weeds,
I understand them,
and even though they are spiritless beings,
I can relate to them in a way I have never related
to someone of my own kind.

I am not a gentle flower
that must be nurtured to growth and bloom.
I am the white dandelion you picked from a patch of grass as a child
so you could almost effortlessly blow every seed into the wind,
scattering me in so many directions that my personas
fall far from my roots,
no two of them planting close together.
In college
I felt too goody two shoes for the theatre department,
too eccentric for the fitness nerds,
too simple for the city-lovers,
and too urbane for the country.
So,
though you may think these weeds are chaotic
and ugly
and unwanted,
these weeds are life,
and they echo our time here
far better than the flowers or grass you desire.
We are not clean;
We are wild,
confused,
and aching for the love of our onlookers,
when oftentimes we are ignored.

Sometimes
I whisper the words
“I love you”
into absent air
just to remember what it sounds like
coming from my lips.
The silence I hear in reply is a reminder
that my words ricochet off of the walls
and back to me,
bouncing off of my ear’s bass drum
a beat that lets me know I am okay,
but this beat is one that most can’t follow.
You see,
within me are two opposing existences,
both equally me,
but different nonetheless.
I am not emotional,
but I feel all of life’s idiosyncrasies deep within me:
the light that peeks through my blinds as I wake in the morning,
the solitary solidarity of a morning run when the town is still asleep,
the sound of nature’s white noise,
the crunch of autumn leaves and twigs beneath my feet…
I feel these things,
and my heart swells with a sense of liberation with each experience,
though I have not yet been liberated.

We may not be pretty to you.
We may not be cultivated.
You may think we are competing with your ideal aesthetic,
but we are just trying to make it through this tangled life
alive and well,
while the rest of the world attempts to rid itself of us.
Little do you know that we are your backbone.
We are your strength.
We are independence.
We are beautiful.

Don’t mow us away.
For the lonely,
for the loveless,
for the forgotten and overlooked,
for the discarded and trodden on,
for the neglected,
for the ignored and mocked,
for societies weeds,
for circumstantial weeds.
For you outcasts are weeds
the flowers nobody wants,
but
weeds are resilient.
They persevere where others can not.
Often mistaken for weak, but no,
weeds are strong
and tough enough to break through tonnes of concrete
and metal.
Clever enough to find growth in places
others perish in.
Adaptable to every habitat and
brave enough to exist on barren wasteland.
Weeds need only the tiniest of a chance to flourish
For the unwanted,
for the unclaimed.
You are beautiful.
You are equal to every other flower.
You are the Charlock, the Buttercup, the Clover,
the Pinapple-May-**** and so much more.
Next time you see a **** by the roadside,
or peeking out from a crack in a wall,
or between paving slabs in a busy city,
or overgrown in a garden,
or weaving through rubble and debris,
take heart
lonely ones.
You are not worthless
You are magnificent.
I've always loved weeds and have been one for so long. We are many, mo cara, we belong
Harly A Quinn Apr 2015
I Used To Be an Optimistic
Child

Believing everything was black and white.
~~~~
It was the first summer in our new
home.
I was six or seven
My Father needed help in the lawn so feeling
in a helping mood, I went out.
His hands were in the dirt and his forehead
was bronzed.
He waved his arm at a small,
Delicate flower.
Go pull weeds.
Not one to question him while, he was busy,
I went over to inspect the flower- i mean ****
How could something so tiny, even more do than my hands,
be considered a ****?

My tiny mind thought weeds were
dark green and barley clinging
to life, with thorns that sliced at
other helpless plants and animals.
Almost like bad people.

I imagine it was then that
My small mind had begun
to grasp
at the idea that plants and people alike
could deceive you.
My first poem I've posted.
Autumn left abandoned trees,
A summer oppressed and on its knees.
Far too short, and almost lost,
Til I found a flower in the weeds.

Words are words, but sometimes seeds,
That blossom with truth and simple deeds.
I learned to live and love again
From a single flower in the weeds.

Fear fell victim to Autumn's siege,
A restless mind now rests at ease.
From the ground, sprang salvation,
A simple flower amidst the weeds.

The golden sky will someday cease,
All men made equal and then released.
Vanquish the living to deliver the peace,
Hold tight to that flower in the weeds.
Nathan French Sep 2012
Spring has come, the time of change, of rebirth,,
For flowers to bloom, and for I to grow again.
Spring has come, a chance to start, begin anew,
As the earth heals, from Winter's icy grasping hold.

Grassy tendrils, seeds that offer me hope,
Weeds as well, if I don't take the opportunity.
Both coexist, however, to an extent, in all of us,
And that is what this Spring has taught me.

This spring has shown me, that I have my weeds,
This spring has shown me that you have yours too,
But we must look beyond that, when we see one another,
We must see that the taint and purity cannot exist in isolation.

The spring is passing, as it always does, but shall come again,
And cloak the darkness that is the winter, the flower of the seasons,
Fighting the cold, staving the dark, killing the weeds, but not all,
For without the weeds, the flowers would wilt, and die, never to return.
A little bit I whipped together for AP English, thought I should post it.
Arlo Disarray Jan 2015
Are flowers without petals
Simply ugly weeds and nettles?
Do the leaves
from the trees
On the breeze
ever settle?

Are the songs without words
Ever truly properly heard?
Or do their sounds
float around
Toward the ground
in the dirt?

Is the blue inside your eyes
A fallen piece of all the skies?
Or could it be
a trick to me?
It's not funny
or at all wise
Rae La May 2014
Pick weeds from a garden and tie them up with a ribbon, tell him to make them beautiful.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 17
Eden’s Weeds (Andrew Crawford)


“seed buried somewhere six feet deep beneath dry bones
and brittle debris, lost in all of eden's weeds” Andrew Crawford

<><>><>
you tripped exploring mine own eden's weeds,
more precisely, tripped me up, your poring over,
my one hundred year old poems, flawed, by
many spilled tears, aged old, for and over them,
and now, once again, je vous réponds s'il vous plait

this poem planned, title chosen, well before you
exercised my memories, disinterring by your fingers,
(surprise!} but the content you also now provided,
@ ten to midnight, your privacy invasion, a very fine
sleep deprivation excuse to compose one more time

who knows, perhaps this next one could be ”flawless”^
not likely though, flawless never found amidst the weeds
though in Eden chances are, chances are, not impossible,
for that’s the place where slow, simple songs get replayed,
celebrating lovers of life, its pleasant harmonies, go figure

over, over again, like a rolling stone, until friction finally wins,
yes ”my own chosen speed”^ is a-slowing, direction home, finally,
the mosses occluding new words and combinations, concealed,
like a moss, got no roots, birthed by shedding spores airborne,
my new old poems, plucked from air, words passing by in phrases

your phrase,
eden’s weeds,
hit my irises,
insisting it deserved,
instant cognition,
two words,
demanding special education,
accolade recognition,
perhaps if I
stick around,
for a few more poems,
I’ll learn to write
as beautiful as you.
Jon Tobias Jul 2011
I don’t know where the right place is

But if you ever found it

That’s where my heart would be

Pumpin’ contently

Good intentions lookin’ like veins

Stackin’ up like a spiral train track headin’ up and out

It’s the only way they grow

Up and out

Like weeds

They grow from anywhere

I had a friend who’s car was so messy weeds were growin’ in his back seat

Love is synonymous with the way weeds grow

Makes me thankful for the fissures in the foundation that holds me

On days where the money runs out

And I can’t even keep my own head above water

On days where I collapse into the fault lines I’ve made for myself

There’s still love in there

I know I’m not perfect

But the intentions bleedin’ out from the cracks in my skin

Are beggin’ for forgiveness

Like it was all that I ever wanted

I hate the fact that I push people away

And I hate the fact that I can get so obnoxious

That even my laugh sounds like thunder

beggin’ ya to punch me in the face

Go ahead and stop lovin’ me if you have to

Just know

If you ever found the right place

Maybe stumbled upon it like a hole in the ground

That you somehow missed

My heart would be in there

Good intentions

Workin’ up like weeds

Beggin’ you to love me
Haley Elizabeth Jan 2015
As her rest became a permanent slumber
Her garden is left a mess
A mess of everything that is wrong
A mess of broken promises
A mess of missed opportunities
A mess of lost memories
She was once a beautiful flower
Now all that's left are **weeds
Inspired by my flower.
Niki Elizabeth Jul 2014
I miss your arms around me
Enveloping like wild weeds,
How you held me tight
Like you needed me to breathe
I miss the way we fit
Like awkward puzzle pieces
How you'd get annoyed
But I'd soothe it all with kisses
We weren't meant to be
Yet we needed each other,
Two lost sounds in this world
Oh how I wish we weren't over.
Mel Mar 2015
Why are weeds considered ugly plants?
They are but the most beautiful anomaly in this cruel and unfair world.
Despite the lack of water and necessary care,
they still manage to find a way through the tightest and inhospitable of cracks,
chasing the warm kiss of the sun,
and to be showered by the cleansing rain.
But when they do overcome their hardships,
greedy, unrelenting hands reach down,
and strip them from the earth,
pulling out their roots,
and throwing them away.
Then the place that they worked so hard to exist in,
is taken over by some eye-pleasing blossom.
Real beauty is not found in those that are given everything,
but rather in that of striving to simply be,
to overcome obstacles,
and rise above,
no matter the circumstance.
There is something beautiful about that fight and determination,
and nothing profound about a flower that is nourished with constant love and affection,
because they will only grow to be weak and fragile.
I...I love you.
That is the only way i can dis scribe this,
i love it when you kiss me,
your lips are soft,
and gentle,
no ones kissed my like this before.
you say you love me,
and my heart roars,
its a gushing volcano of hot lava.
you touch,
plants gardens.

your eyes,
big,
beautiful,
Russet ,
orbs,
i cant look away.
the way you look at me,
speaks a language,
without words.
You are Virgo ,
and i a Gemini.

you are kind.
and loving.
i cant let you out of my head.

BOOM
you broke my heart.
the way you kissed me was terrible
the volcano is inactive
the garden is a decay of mold, chopped trees, and weeds
your eyes are the color of ****
and now everything is silent.
I can't believe i let you in.
at least i didn't give you anything important.
its just a heart
nothing special.
for Jacob thanks for nothing.
May
Come queen of months in company
Wi all thy merry minstrelsy
The restless cuckoo absent long
And twittering swallows chimney song
And hedge row crickets notes that run
From every bank that fronts the sun
And swathy bees about the grass
That stops wi every bloom they pass
And every minute every hour
Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower
And toil and childhoods humming joys
For there is music in the noise
The village childern mad for sport
In school times leisure ever short
That crick and catch the bouncing ball
And run along the church yard wall
Capt wi rude figured slabs whose claims
In times bad memory hath no names
Oft racing round the nookey church
Or calling ecchos in the porch
And jilting oer the weather ****
Viewing wi jealous eyes the clock
Oft leaping grave stones leaning hights
Uncheckt wi mellancholy sights
The green grass swelld in many a heap
Where kin and friends and parents sleep
Unthinking in their jovial cry
That time shall come when they shall lye
As lowly and as still as they
While other boys above them play
Heedless as they do now to know
The unconcious dust that lies below
The shepherd goes wi happy stride
Wi moms long shadow by his side
Down the dryd lanes neath blooming may
That once was over shoes in clay
While martins twitter neath his eves
Which he at early morning leaves
The driving boy beside his team
Will oer the may month beauty dream
And **** his hat and turn his eye
On flower and tree and deepning skye
And oft bursts loud in fits of song
And whistles as he reels along
Cracking his whip in starts of joy
A happy ***** driving boy
The youth who leaves his corner stool
Betimes for neighbouring village school
While as a mark to urge him right
The church spires all the way in sight
Wi cheerings from his parents given
Starts neath the joyous smiles of heaven
And sawns wi many an idle stand
Wi bookbag swinging in his hand
And gazes as he passes bye
On every thing that meets his eye
Young lambs seem tempting him to play
Dancing and bleating in his way
Wi trembling tails and pointed ears
They follow him and loose their fears
He smiles upon their sunny faces
And feign woud join their happy races
The birds that sing on bush and tree
Seem chirping for his company
And all in fancys idle whim
Seem keeping holiday but him
He lolls upon each resting stile
To see the fields so sweetly smile
To see the wheat grow green and long
And list the weeders toiling song
Or short note of the changing thrush
Above him in the white thorn bush
That oer the leaning stile bends low
Loaded wi mockery of snow
Mozzld wi many a lushing thread
Of crab tree blossoms delicate red
He often bends wi many a wish
Oer the brig rail to view the fish
Go sturting by in sunny gleams
And chucks in the eye dazzld streams
Crumbs from his pocket oft to watch
The swarming struttle come to catch
Them where they to the bottom sile
Sighing in fancys joy the while
Hes cautiond not to stand so nigh
By rosey milkmaid tripping bye
Where he admires wi fond delight
And longs to be there mute till night
He often ventures thro the day
At truant now and then to play
Rambling about the field and plain
Seeking larks nests in the grain
And picking flowers and boughs of may
To hurd awhile and throw away
Lurking neath bushes from the sight
Of tell tale eyes till schools noon night
Listing each hour for church clocks hum
To know the hour to wander home
That parents may not think him long
Nor dream of his rude doing wrong
Dreading thro the night wi dreaming pain
To meet his masters wand again
Each hedge is loaded thick wi green
And where the hedger late hath been
Tender shoots begin to grow
From the mossy stumps below
While sheep and cow that teaze the grain
will nip them to the root again
They lay their bill and mittens bye
And on to other labours hie
While wood men still on spring intrudes
And thins the shadow solitudes
Wi sharpend axes felling down
The oak trees budding into brown
Where as they crash upon the ground
A crowd of labourers gather round
And mix among the shadows dark
To rip the crackling staining bark
From off the tree and lay when done
The rolls in lares to meet the sun
Depriving yearly where they come
The green wood pecker of its home
That early in the spring began
Far from the sight of troubling man
And bord their round holes in each tree
In fancys sweet security
Till startld wi the woodmans noise
It wakes from all its dreaming joys
The blue bells too that thickly bloom
Where man was never feared to come
And smell smocks that from view retires
**** rustling leaves and bowing briars
And stooping lilys of the valley
That comes wi shades and dews to dally
White beady drops on slender threads
Wi broad hood leaves above their heads
Like white robd maids in summer hours
Neath umberellas shunning showers
These neath the barkmens crushing treads
Oft perish in their blooming beds
Thus stript of boughs and bark in white
Their trunks shine in the mellow light
Beneath the green surviving trees
That wave above them in the breeze
And waking whispers slowly bends
As if they mournd their fallen friends
Each morning now the weeders meet
To cut the thistle from the wheat
And ruin in the sunny hours
Full many wild weeds of their flowers
Corn poppys that in crimson dwell
Calld ‘head achs’ from their sickly smell
And carlock yellow as the sun
That oer the may fields thickly run
And ‘iron ****’ content to share
The meanest spot that spring can spare
Een roads where danger hourly comes
Is not wi out its purple blooms
And leaves wi points like thistles round
Thickset that have no strength to wound
That shrink to childhoods eager hold
Like hair—and with its eye of gold
And scarlet starry points of flowers
Pimpernel dreading nights and showers
Oft calld ‘the shepherds weather glass’
That sleep till suns have dyd the grass
Then wakes and spreads its creeping bloom
Till clouds or threatning shadows come
Then close it shuts to sleep again
Which weeders see and talk of rain
And boys that mark them shut so soon
will call them ‘John go bed at noon
And fumitory too a name
That superstition holds to fame
Whose red and purple mottled flowers
Are cropt by maids in weeding hours
To boil in water milk and way1
For washes on an holiday
To make their beauty fair and sleak
And scour the tan from summers cheek
And simple small forget me not
Eyd wi a pinshead yellow spot
I’th’ middle of its tender blue
That gains from poets notice due
These flowers the toil by crowds destroys
And robs them of their lowly joys
That met the may wi hopes as sweet
As those her suns in gardens meet
And oft the dame will feel inclind
As childhoods memory comes to mind
To turn her hook away and spare
The blooms it lovd to gather there
My wild field catalogue of flowers
Grows in my ryhmes as thick as showers
Tedious and long as they may be
To some, they never weary me
The wood and mead and field of grain
I coud hunt oer and oer again
And talk to every blossom wild
Fond as a parent to a child
And cull them in my childish joy
By swarms and swarms and never cloy
When their lank shades oer morning pearls
Shrink from their lengths to little girls
And like the clock hand pointing one
Is turnd and tells the morning gone
They leave their toils for dinners hour
Beneath some hedges bramble bower
And season sweet their savory meals
Wi joke and tale and merry peals
Of ancient tunes from happy tongues
While linnets join their fitful songs
Perchd oer their heads in frolic play
Among the tufts of motling may
The young girls whisper things of love
And from the old dames hearing move
Oft making ‘love knotts’ in the shade
Of blue green oat or wheaten blade
And trying simple charms and spells
That rural superstition tells
They pull the little blossom threads
From out the knapweeds button heads
And put the husk wi many a smile
In their white bosoms for awhile
Who if they guess aright the swain
That loves sweet fancys trys to gain
Tis said that ere its lain an hour
Twill blossom wi a second flower
And from her white ******* hankerchief
Bloom as they ne’er had lost a leaf
When signs appear that token wet
As they are neath the bushes met
The girls are glad wi hopes of play
And harping of the holiday
A hugh blue bird will often swim
Along the wheat when skys grow dim
Wi clouds—slow as the gales of spring
In motion wi dark shadowd wing
Beneath the coming storm it sails
And lonly chirps the wheat hid quails
That came to live wi spring again
And start when summer browns the grain
They start the young girls joys afloat
Wi ‘wet my foot’ its yearly note
So fancy doth the sound explain
And proves it oft a sign of rain
About the moor ‘**** sheep and cow
The boy or old man wanders now
Hunting all day wi hopful pace
Each thick sown rushy thistly place
For plover eggs while oer them flye
The fearful birds wi teazing cry
Trying to lead their steps astray
And coying him another way
And be the weather chill or warm
Wi brown hats truckd beneath his arm
Holding each prize their search has won
They plod bare headed to the sun
Now dames oft bustle from their wheels
Wi childern scampering at their heels
To watch the bees that hang and swive
In clumps about each thronging hive
And flit and thicken in the light
While the old dame enjoys the sight
And raps the while their warming pans
A spell that superstition plans
To coax them in the garden bounds
As if they lovd the tinkling sounds
And oft one hears the dinning noise
Which dames believe each swarm decoys
Around each village day by day
Mingling in the warmth of may
Sweet scented herbs her skill contrives
To rub the bramble platted hives
Fennels thread leaves and crimpld balm
To scent the new house of the swarm
The thresher dull as winter days
And lost to all that spring displays
Still mid his barn dust forcd to stand
Swings his frail round wi weary hand
While oer his head shades thickly creep
And hides the blinking owl asleep
And bats in cobweb corners bred
Sharing till night their murky bed
The sunshine trickles on the floor
Thro every crevice of the door
And makes his barn where shadows dwell
As irksome as a prisoners cell
And as he seeks his daily meal
As schoolboys from their tasks will steal
ile often stands in fond delay
To see the daisy in his way
And wild weeds flowering on the wall
That will his childish sports recall
Of all the joys that came wi spring
The twirling top the marble ring
The gingling halfpence hussld up
At pitch and toss the eager stoop
To pick up heads, the smuggeld plays
Neath hovels upon sabbath days
When parson he is safe from view
And clerk sings amen in his pew
The sitting down when school was oer
Upon the threshold by his door
Picking from mallows sport to please
Each crumpld seed he calld a cheese
And hunting from the stackyard sod
The stinking hen banes belted pod
By youths vain fancys sweetly fed
Christning them his loaves of bread
He sees while rocking down the street
Wi weary hands and crimpling feet
Young childern at the self same games
And hears the self same simple names
Still floating on each happy tongue
Touchd wi the simple scene so strong
Tears almost start and many a sigh
Regrets the happiness gone bye
And in sweet natures holiday
His heart is sad while all is gay
How lovly now are lanes and balks
For toils and lovers sunday walks
The daisey and the buttercup
For which the laughing childern stoop
A hundred times throughout the day
In their rude ramping summer play
So thickly now the pasture crowds
In gold and silver sheeted clouds
As if the drops in april showers
Had woo’d the sun and swoond to flowers
The brook resumes its summer dresses
Purling neath grass and water cresses
And mint and flag leaf swording high
Their blooms to the unheeding eye
And taper bowbent hanging rushes
And horse tail childerns bottle brushes
And summer tracks about its brink
Is fresh again where cattle drink
And on its sunny bank the swain
Stretches his idle length again
Soon as the sun forgets the day
The moon looks down on the lovly may
And the little star his friend and guide
Travelling together side by side
And the seven stars and charleses wain
Hangs smiling oer green woods agen
The heaven rekindles all alive
Wi light the may bees round the hive
Swarm not so thick in mornings eye
As stars do in the evening skye
All all are nestling in their joys
The flowers and birds and pasture boys
The firetail, long a stranger, comes
To his last summer haunts and homes
To hollow tree and crevisd wall
And in the grass the rails odd call
That featherd spirit stops the swain
To listen to his note again
And school boy still in vain retraces
The secrets of his hiding places
In the black thorns crowded copse
Thro its varied turns and stops
The nightingale its ditty weaves
Hid in a multitude of leaves
The boy stops short to hear the strain
And ’sweet jug jug’ he mocks again
The yellow hammer builds its nest
By banks where sun beams earliest rest
That drys the dews from off the grass
Shading it from all that pass
Save the rude boy wi ferret gaze
That hunts thro evry secret maze
He finds its pencild eggs agen
All streakd wi lines as if a pen
By natures freakish hand was took
To scrawl them over like a book
And from these many mozzling marks
The school boy names them ‘writing larks’
*** barrels twit on bush and tree
Scarse bigger then a bumble bee
And in a white thorns leafy rest
It builds its curious pudding-nest
Wi hole beside as if a mouse
Had built the little barrel house
Toiling full many a lining feather
And bits of grey tree moss together
Amid the noisey rooky park
Beneath the firdales branches dark
The little golden crested wren
Hangs up his glowing nest agen
And sticks it to the furry leaves
As martins theirs beneath the eaves
The old hens leave the roost betimes
And oer the garden pailing climbs
To scrat the gardens fresh turnd soil
And if unwatchd his crops to spoil
Oft cackling from the prison yard
To peck about the houseclose sward
Catching at butterflys and things
Ere they have time to try their wings
The cattle feels the breath of may
And kick and toss their heads in play
The *** beneath his bags of sand
Oft jerks the string from leaders hand
And on the road will eager stoop
To pick the sprouting thistle up
Oft answering on his weary way
Some distant neighbours sobbing bray
Dining the ears of driving boy
As if he felt a fit of joy
Wi in its pinfold circle left
Of all its company bereft
Starvd stock no longer noising round
Lone in the nooks of foddering ground
Each skeleton of lingering stack
By winters tempests beaten black
Nodds upon props or bolt upright
Stands swarthy in the summer light
And oer the green grass seems to lower
Like stump of old time wasted tower
All that in winter lookd for hay
Spread from their batterd haunts away
To pick the grass or lye at lare
Beneath the mild hedge shadows there
Sweet month that gives a welcome call
To toil and nature and to all
Yet one day mid thy many joys
Is dead to all its sport and noise
Old may day where’s thy glorys gone
All fled and left thee every one
Thou comst to thy old haunts and homes
Unnoticd as a stranger comes
No flowers are pluckt to hail the now
Nor cotter seeks a single bough
The maids no more on thy sweet morn
Awake their thresholds to adorn
Wi dewey flowers—May locks new come
And princifeathers cluttering bloom
And blue bells from the woodland moss
And cowslip cucking ***** to toss
Above the garlands swinging hight
Hang in the soft eves sober light
These maid and child did yearly pull
By many a folded apron full
But all is past the merry song
Of maidens hurrying along
To crown at eve the earliest cow
Is gone and dead and silent now
The laugh raisd at the mocking thorn
Tyd to the cows tail last that morn
The kerchief at arms length displayd
Held up by pairs of swain and maid
While others bolted underneath
Bawling loud wi panting breath
‘Duck under water’ as they ran
Alls ended as they ne’er began
While the new thing that took thy place
Wears faded smiles upon its face
And where enclosure has its birth
It spreads a mildew oer her mirth
The herd no longer one by one
Goes plodding on her morning way
And garlands lost and sports nigh gone
Leaves her like thee a common day
Yet summer smiles upon thee still
Wi natures sweet unalterd will
And at thy births unworshipd hours
Fills her green lap wi swarms of flowers
To crown thee still as thou hast been
Of spring and summer months the queen
Poetic Artiste Jul 2014
The Insecurities are flourishing,
A gorgeous garden is my mind—
But the weeds keep growing in.
Media like kryptonite—weakening my self esteem.
—Thoughts of a young child never knowing what to believe.

I lie awake in bed at night staring at the ceiling.
If only the notion could suffice in finding the words—
For the void I'm feeling in my life,
But it isn't simple.

Pure corruption of my mind,
Perfect pictures,
Flawless figures,
The images I can't erase.
Uncomfortable in my own skin—
What do I do to feel safe?

Do I drown myself in ink—to cover up the imperfections?
Instead of talking—walk and let my skin scream the self-expression?

Or do I return to the blank stare in the mirror?
The words are on repeat.
Who am I to think I’m beautiful—when I myself can’t see?
Who am I to think I'm valuable—when there is no self-confidence there?
Who am I to think I'm worthy—when I myself don't feel?

The insecurities keep flourishing.
A gorgeous garden was my mind,
But the weeds kept growing in.
Media like kryptonite—weakening my self esteem.
Thoughts of a young child,
--Never knowing what to believe.

One night as I lie awake—I hear my subconscious scream out to me.
The most attractive people do the ugliest of things,
The true beauty you want is what’s imprisoned within.
Why stop your happiness to return to a place—
—A place where you feel so alone?
Why do the tears flow?
You're killing yourself—
And you fail to realize
Your own self-doubt is the knife!
Pessimism,
The negative thoughts building inside—
They’re just as bad as the razorblade that kisses your skin as you sit in silence...
Why are you hurting yourself?
Temporary pain is only a distraction,
You were blessed and shaped by the hands of God.
What more could you possibly ask for?

Appearance is not everything.—
Stop the self-consciousness and live your life.
—acknowledge that you —are your worst —enemy...

I open my eyes.
The cries have ceased,
I return to the blank stare in the mirror.
The words are on repeat.
Who am I to think I’m beautiful—when I myself can’t see?
Who am I to think I'm valuable—when there is no self-confidence there?
Who am I to think I'm worthy—when I myself don't feel?

But it’s different this time,
My reflection speaks.
Saying no—
Who are you not to?
Your imperfections are beautiful.
Beautiful enough for the heart that is meant to love you,
Believe in yourself.
No more self doubt,
No more lost soul.

—No more insecurities flourishing,
A gorgeous garden is my mind.
No more weeds keep growing in,
Media is not my kryptonite,
No more weakening of my self esteem,
Thoughts of a young child finally unshackled —and free.
You keep a garden
Some of your arrangements are to

Boast and show off
Delight in and keep for yourself
Alter with curiousity and growth


So you keep this beautiful garden
With every right intention

For leaves to sprout with confidence
For stems to hold firm and sturdy
For flowers to flaunt beauty and rich color


But do you see your precious garden
Is so riddled with weeds?

Weeds that expose iniquity
Weeds that slowly eat away
Weeds that make your Father frown!


Try as you may, in your garden**
To hide or otherwise ignore your ugly weeds

But your leaves, they will crinkle
Your stems will fall short and break
And your petals will surely wilt.
Either peace or happiness,
let it enfold you

when I was a young man
I felt these things were
dumb, unsophisticated.
I had bad blood, a twisted
mind, a precarious
upbringing.

I was hard as granite, I
leered at the
sun.
I trusted no man and
especially no
woman.

I was living a hell in
small rooms, I broke
things, smashed things,
walked through glass,
cursed.
I challenged everything,
was continually being
evicted, jailed, in and
out of fights, in and out
of my mind.
women were something
to ***** and rail
at, I had no male
friends,

I changed jobs and
cities, I hated holidays,
babies, history,
newspapers, museums,
grandmothers,
marriage, movies,
spiders, garbagemen,
english accents,spain,
france,italy,walnuts and
the color
orange.
algebra angred me,
opera sickened me,
charlie chaplin was a
fake
and flowers were for
pansies.

peace and happiness to me
were signs of
inferiority,
tenants of the weak
and
addled
mind.

but as I went on with
my alley fights,
my suicidal years,
my passage through
any number of
women-it gradually
began to occur to
me
that I wasn't different

from the
others, I was the same,

they were all fulsome
with hatred,
glossed over with petty
grievances,
the men I fought in
alleys had hearts of stone.
everybody was nudging,
inching, cheating for
some insignificant
advantage,
the lie was the
weapon and the
plot was
empty,
darkness was the
dictator.

cautiously, I allowed
myself to feel good
at times.
I found moments of
peace in cheap
rooms
just staring at the
knobs of some
dresser
or listening to the
rain in the
dark.
the less I needed
the better I
felt.

maybe the other life had worn me
down.
I no longer found
glamour
in topping somebody
in conversation.
or in mounting the
body of some poor
drunken female
whose life had
slipped away into
sorrow.

I could never accept
life as it was,
i could never gobble
down all its
poisons
but there were parts,
tenuous magic parts
open for the
asking.

I re formulated
I don't know when,
date, time, all
that
but the change
occurred.
something in me
relaxed, smoothed
out.
i no longer had to
prove that I was a
man,

I didn't have to prove
anything.

I began to see things:
coffee cups lined up
behind a counter in a
cafe.
or a dog walking along
a sidewalk.
or the way the mouse
on my dresser top
stopped there
with its body,
its ears,
its nose,
it was fixed,
a bit of life
caught within itself
and its eyes looked
at me
and they were
beautiful.
then- it was
gone.

I began to feel good,
I began to feel good
in the worst situations
and there were plenty
of those.
like say, the boss
behind his desk,
he is going to have
to fire me.

I've missed too many
days.
he is dressed in a
suit, necktie, glasses,
he says, 'I am going
to have to let you go'

'it's all right' I tell
him.

He must do what he
must do, he has a
wife, a house, children,
expenses, most probably
a girlfriend.

I am sorry for him
he is caught.

I walk onto the blazing
sunshine.
the whole day is
mine
temporarily,
anyhow.

(the whole world is at the
throat of the world,
everybody feels angry,
short-changed, cheated,
everybody is despondent,
disillusioned)

I welcomed shots of
peace, tattered shards of
happiness.

I embraced that stuff
like the hottest number,
like high heels, *******,
singing,the
works.

(don't get me wrong,
there is such a thing as cockeyed optimism
that overlooks all
basic problems just for
the sake of
itself-
this is a shield and a
sickness.)

The knife got near my
throat again,
I almost turned on the
gas
again
but when the good
moments arrived
again
I didn't fight them off
like an alley
adversary.
I let them take me,
I luxuriated in them,
I made them welcome
home.
I even looked into
the mirror
once having thought
myself to be
ugly,
I now liked what
I saw, almost
handsome, yes,
a bit ripped and
ragged,
scares, lumps,
odd turns,
but all in all,
not too bad,
almost handsome,
better at least than
some of those movie
star faces
like the cheeks of
a baby's
****.

and finally I discovered
real feelings of
others,
unheralded,
like lately,
like this morning,
as I was leaving,
for the track,
i saw my wife in bed,
just the
shape of
her head there
(not forgetting
centuries of the living
and the dead and
the dying,
the pyramids,
Mozart dead
but his music still
there in the
room, weeds growing,
the earth turning,
the tote board waiting for
me)
I saw the shape of my
wife's head,
she so still,
I ached for her life,
just being there
under the
covers.

I kissed her in the
forehead,
got down the stairway,
got outside,
got into my marvelous
car,
fixed the seatbelt,
backed out the
drive.
feeling warm to
the fingertips,
down to my
foot on the gas
pedal,
I entered the world
once
more,
drove down the
hill
past the houses
full and empty
of
people,
I saw the mailman,
honked,
he waved
back
at me.
Milton Robertson May 2018
When you plant a good seed watch out for weeds. They will try to supersede and ***** out all good deeds.

Because weeds only grow to impede and to do misdeeds. Once freed the weeds will procede to take the lead and will have you treed, indeed.

So take heed when you plant your seed don't feed the weeds or they will breed and can make you concede.

Proof read then proceed with Godspeed.
Fight the good fight. It's LIFE.
Emma N Boyer Nov 2013
I don’t think anyone knows what the hell they’re doing.  I mean, people think they have it all figured out but honestly, who knows? We can’t truly follow examples because everyone’s different –don’t tell me they’re not—and it’s not like we can ever have the same experiences. Not the exact same, anyways. And so I don’t think anyone knows what they’re going to do or feel each day, because we’re all a train wreck wrapped inside a fractured mind and a strong-ish body, moving through every day with the same uncertainty as a dandelion in a field of roses—we are lost. I’m not sure why we pretend; why we lie to ourselves because we say it’s not fair when other people lie. We put ourselves below others, or above them but who the hell cares? No one knows who they are, don’t let them fool you and don’t let them get you down because nobody knows where they’re going and so they’re pushing past you and sprinting in the wrong direction because maybe you’ve gotten further than them and they don’t know what to do and maybe they need people behind them to feel like they’re moving at all so let it be. Take a deep breath. You’re on your own, and they say you don’t have to be but you are. Because you live inside your mind—it doesn’t matter if you don’t want to. You are the things you think and feel and no one else is feeling them too even though they’ll say they are…it doesn’t matter. You are stronger than you think and even though you don’t know what you’re doing you can figure it out—at least for a little while. At least long enough to take a deep breath and find your next step. Nobody knows what the hell they’re doing. Every time we think we have it all figured out, and we have a map of our lives tucked safely into our back pockets the wind picks up and blows it away along with any confidence we had and we’re forced to start anew. That’s why no one knows what they’re doing. We don’t have time to map it all out. We don’t have time for anything, and that’s why we’re lost. Things happen so fast, and before we can absorb them or celebrate them or be sad about them something else happens, and we’re thrown into another frenzy of emotion that takes away our breath and drowns our hearts in confusion—there isn’t enough time. And so no one knows what they’re doing and if they did, they couldn’t do it anyways because even people who are brilliant are full of doubts. They second guess themselves and they second guess each other because they know they are brilliant but that isn’t enough. That’s never enough. Society shows us—they scream at us that we are who they say we are and if they don’t see we are brilliant there’s no point in trying to prove that we are because it doesn’t matter.  None of it matters. And I don’t know why I feel that way but I do and I have and I always will until someone shows me I am wrong. And I mean shows me. I am tired of words and all their empty words no one knows how to use them right and they say them without a thought about how they will enter other people’s minds or lace their dreams I want someone to show me. I can’t show myself. I could try and I have before but the truth is I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. And maybe I’m pretending when I say that everyone feels the same way or maybe I am painfully correct—no one knows. No one cares. I am just as much a dandelion in a field of roses as a rose in a bouquet of weeds and so is everybody else. The problem is that dandelions are a menace and roses have thorns and there isn’t time to change the world or smooth things out because there isn’t time for anything. Nobody knows what they’re doing. So how does the world work? How do we breathe in and breathe out knowing that we’re lost and so it everyone else and no one can tell us how to be found because we cannot follow examples. Every single thing effects every single person in a different way, and no matter how microscopic their change in perspective is it still exists. The print made by our thumbs is not the only thing that is completely unique about us. If we could all be identified by the pictures in our minds and the music in our souls and not the masks we wear to muffle it all the world could be a better reality. Because for some of us not knowing is too much. We fall asleep at night or during the day and we don’t want to wake up because whenever our eyes are closed our hearts are, too. The world painted on our eyelids is better than the dreamless chasm that is reality and maybe that’s dramatic and maybe it’s too deep but no one cares anyway. These worlds are inside of me and they’re not just going to melt away so I have to put them somewhere. I don’t know what I’m doing. I want people to understand that. There’s always something more. I’m not sure what I mean by that. It’s just whenever I’m happy there’s something else that reminds me why I wasn’t before. I know who I am, better than a lot of people, but I don’t think it matters. I’m wearing a mask just like everyone else even though the music in my soul is so loud it shakes me. I drown it out and cover it up with the labels taped across my mouth and pinned to my back by people who just want to sleep. I’m not saying things should change. I don’t think they will. I don’t think I can change them but accepting that dandelions belong with roses is the only place I can start. Being lost is okay and being as scared of your own thorns as you are of everyone else’s is okay, too. Setting aside your mask and letting music blare from inside of you is beautiful and everyone knows it, but it they pretend it’s not…that’s okay. But I guess I’m sick of OKAYs. I want brilliance. I guess for now I will keep my mask on, and I’m okay with saying—I’m BRILLIANT with saying mine is a medley of both finger prints and music; weeds and a rose’s glow, and the beautiful and bold blackness of all these words I’ve torn from exactly Who I Am.
Helen Jun 2015
We long to roam through
discarded gardens overgrown
with antiquated notions
to pluck the weeds from
the very soil we often
refused to simply toil
Espying the single rose
beneath the creeping vine
asking not what encouraged it
to be simply divine, it just is
Little weeds that head with colour
springing beneath a summer flower
ignored for its parasitic ways
flourishing beneath a distant gaze
growing in a barren wasteland
untouched by a living hand
Unguarded garden in riotous
bloom, little weeds that like
to loom, beneath the heady
fragrance of another day
asking that you not pull them
from the only soil ever known
to them, they grew heart whole
despite you staying away
The Bleak Poet May 2016
You were the rose in my garden,
But you were also the weeds,
That I could never seem to get rid of.

– The Weeds in my Rose Garden // F.C.
An excerpt from a novel I'll never write
Joel M Frye Mar 2017
To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.
The beauty of your words takes my breath away some days.  Thank you.
White with daisies and red with sorrel
  And empty, empty under the sky!—
Life is a quest and love a quarrel—
  Here is a place for me to lie.

Daisies spring from ****** seeds,
  And this red fire that here I see
Is a worthless crop of crimson weeds,
  Cursed by farmers thriftily.

But here, unhated for an hour,
  The sorrel runs in ragged flame,
The daisy stands, a ******* flower,
  Like flowers that bear an honest name.

And here a while, where no wind brings
  The baying of a pack athirst,
May sleep the sleep of blessed things,
  The blood too bright, the brow accurst.
Katelyn Arnold Apr 2014
all you are is a bouquet of weeds, finding your
way through the cuts haphazardly placed on
my frail legs, and sitting in my veins rotting like
roadkill, turning the flowers in my stomach into
a swamp of misery and dehydration. as intrusive
as you are, i can't seem to get rid of you. nobody
told me that drugs is not only just opiates and
stimulates, that it could possibly be as much of a  
psychological need as love does to me. i couldn't
imagine being squeezed around my neck like a
snake, hand or noose deadlocking me but i suffocate
in my mistakes. so it makes sense that's why the
garden in my chest has been long forgotten about:
i've forgotten to take care of myself. i need people
to help me with making sure that i'm important and
vital to them. all i ever am is a bouquet of weeds, and
i feel like i grow so attached to a person that i end up
being that snake, noose, or hand constricting them
until they need to pry themselves loose. i'm sorry.

- kra
PJ Nov 2013
The love I give will
Surely grow into
Weeds of
Annoyance, while
Her love blooms with
Color and
Beauty for every man
She meets

— The End —