My garden

My garden is overwrought

nothing have I trimmed

in forever

it’s gone wild.

Creepers of doubt

have taken over

the once neat lawn,

and strangle

the tall trees of ideologies.

Weeds of stray prejudices grow

where good intentions were

once planted.

The storm isn’t helping matters,

it scatters the dry leaves

of hopes and dreams,

they blow and drift

snagging sometimes here

sometimes there.

Roots still try to hold on

to something,

anything…

Twisted branches of overthinking

hang everywhere…

The weak seedlings

of new ideas are

gripping for dear life

onto the sticks

of pseudo motivation I

tied them to.

The climbers,

honesty, and truth –

They never die

But never flourish either.

How can they?

When I care so much

about things like

propriety and looking good.