Immaturity is a weed,

It grows inside you’s and me’s.

We spend our lives picking at it,

Attempting to clear the pit,

Only to eventually find by doing so 

We’ve emptied it.

 

Our bodies the garden of Eden,

Genesis only the seedling

Granting the light that torches life.

Each of us begins with the same concern,

Watching brothers sing the serpent’s curse.

But like all things variations exist,

My weed is deeply rooted, 

Imbedded in my fingers 

Tracing back into my wrists

Haggardly stubborn to exist.

Yours is a dandelion road

That welcomes soft blows of breath,

Claiming wishful truths exists,

Coaxing infestation from both our lips,

Plaguing your mind with yellow venom 

Eagerly awaiting nourishment from lapping sips.

 

There’s a million remedies,

Hundreds of doctors to see,

Mine speaks in rhymes to me.

Excavation is not impossible,

But none of it last very long.

There is no cure for conscious wrong.

Except maybe time 

And a refrain 

From calling you mine.

 

Friendships bloom in May 

It’s always been that way. 

The month of flowers and fresh face,

A time for warmth and utter disgrace.

The incubated winter months 

Amplify the young saplings’ lust.

May came too early for you and I 

But give it a year, the wind is nigh,

In a fortnights time the sailing will be just fine.