In some of what I write
I write to tend the garden of my mind
I write to pluck the weeds that grow within my head
I write to uproot them and cast them aside
I write to yank them from the ground
When I do
I see how deep their roots really go
Yanking on them
I feel how strongly they cling to the ground
And I find that I never get them all
Pieces of them remain
Soon to spring up again
I bend repeatedly to the task
My hands are gnarled from grabbing and pulling
They sting from the nettles
My back is sore from the work
For my legs will only let me go so low
And still exert the force to pull the weeds
Yet for all that
The weeds return
It seems I feed them instead of the flowers I seek to nurture
Through spreading around manure
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