The Weeds in my Head

Are we ever going to

put it on display

That clearly unclear discomfort

that brings us soo much shame?


Can we ever stand soo tall?

Stretching thin,

-a brittle break-


As the grass grows tall,

we mow it down,

who's to say I'm not the same?




Falling on my ass.


Trying to start over,

cutting ugly grass.


Every time it's harder,

saying it will last.

When deep down in my psyche,

I know it goes too fast.


Maybe if it was tangible,

a weed that I could touch.

I could see the little flowering parts,

Something I could clutch.


But always it's soo fleeting,

always it's the same.

A dull -thump- of inspiration,

and then a worsening pain.


The breeze becomes a thunderstorm,

and we're washed away with the rain.

This poem is about: 
My family
Our world


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