There is a garden, inside you.
In it you will find
the most beautiful snap dragons,
begonias, ivies, and lilies,
that you will ever see;
but here and there,
are a different kind of flower.
The petals are
a rugged black,
and they bear no name
that you would recognize.
And there will come a time
you must be brave enough
to face, their gnarled thorns,
and pluck them.
Endure what is the horrible discomfort
in their tendency to claw
everything up, on the way out,
and you can toss them,
still gasping, into the water.
Watch the black
bleed from them
like ink, as they circle the drain.
Or you can press them
between the pages of a book,
and they’ll become a poem.
And while they always grow back,
I promise, there are long nights
amid the churned up soil where they once were,
where you’ll feel nothing but relief
