My finger glides upon a surface of addiction everyday
I pick the petals off my flowers and lay them beside another person’s garden
Garden’s that haven’t been watered with the same rain
Or planted in the same soil
Yet I wonder why my garden does not compare.
My eyes walk upon the bodies of models, picking out every perfect bit
I touch the leaves of my flowers and they shrivel when I stare
While the garden’s next door leaves soak in the praise I give and bathe in green
I may have forgotten to water my own
As I’m now too busy with the lovely flowers across the street.
My mind absorbs what my finger touches and what my eyes see
Like a sponge, the sparse water from my garden is all soaked away
Where I’m left with a soil of crumbles and feeble stems
And my flowers no longer hold sight of a single ray.