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.