A Garden Of Weeds

The bitter truth is

you're the roots of me

and i don't want

this overgrown garden

untended and wild

the need weeding

have i been watering

the spend seeds

of what has slowly

been withering?

in the garden of dead things

i've got pruning shears

and a bucket of tears

so here goes nothing

picking our weedy remains

i'm ready to place them

in an old, dusty vase

and call them flowers

they won't bloom

like i wish they would

a weed cannot become a rose