The seeds were always there
In little things he said and did.
Seeds that could grow into thorny weeds.
But there were also sweeter seeds.
Seeds to help him flower.
But somewhere along way,
The bad seeds got all the nourishing
And the good ones left astray.
The hardest part is feeling as if you could be his gardener;
That you can help him remove the thorny weeds.
But it simply is not possible
If you cannot remove it from the root,
And when the growing has gone on for so long,
That the roots are burried beneath one another and a wall of clay
The work becomes too much,
And you forget how to play.
The good seeds are there,
Hidden in the brush.
But it simply isn’t your job to grow them,
When he’s being such a cunt.
Love this poem specifically for the last lines. Sometimes I really love the things I make. 😊