And what do others grow in their heads?

Sweet, tranquil gardens, smelling of joy and innocence?

Or perhaps bright yellow buttercups, begging to be painted,

As they shiver in the loud wind of hope that swells between their ears?


I am no gardener, however I sure have pretended to be.

The green on my thumb is from a dirty ink pad I stole,

From an elementary school (my emotions have not matured since then, perhaps).

The harder I press my thumb into the green pad the more I can feel myself dying.


There is no garden here.

Only falsities and half-truths, a graveyard for a garden that,

might have,

could have,

would have been.


Deafening and rambunctious doubt disguised as intellectual curiosity.

Others grow gardens, they bleed pansies from their ears,

signaling their epic transition from Old to New Creation.


My soil is lackluster at best, poisoned by the green ink that cloaks my thumbs.

There is no garden within this head.