Struggling

The questioning never seems to end with you

The thoughts never stop their yelling, every scream bouncing off the walls

Ricocheting, I don’t think any of them make sense

And none of them know where their going but they know that they want to go

None of them are making sense.

They don’t stop jumping and screaming and rioting and tearing you apart

You build all of them, you feed all of them, you grow all of them as tall as you can

Your garden is full of weeds that you refuse to cut, weeds you grew yourself

Weeds that grew thorns and vines that wrapped their way around you

You blame the desirable, vast gardens across the street on why your weeds cover you

On why your weeds don’t make sense, how are they growing more and more?

None of them make sense

Weeds cover you, in your lungs, in your heart, in your mind, in your soul.

They don’t make sense, yet you flourished them

Now you’re struggling. Struggling to be whole.