When Your Card Gets Declined At Therapy | Poetry Collection Part 1 ©

Garden Of Fate.

I call my mind the garden of fate,
Because although everything might look neat and tidy, there are only a few people I let through the small delicate gate.

I grow veggies and fruit, flowers and trees,
there's even a small special corner dedicated to a blooming meadow for the bees.

Behind the worn garden fence, all the plants can grow,
There are just a few that I won't allow
to climb over the rungs and crawl to my neighbor's,
he has a tendency to complain about the
Scratches they leave.

Amidst the lawn, a small shed is placed,
directed with the window so I could always look at the flowers it grazed.
And on the crooked-growing apple tree, a basket swing slightly blows in the breeze.

My garden is not perfect, there is a messy corner where I toss my tools, behind a wooden crate full to the brim with red yarn and spools.
Yarn I'd later use to tame the wild gooseberries, before they could sting me to death, so I'd bleed out in the meadow of flowers and bees - but that's only one of my dark fantasies.
Behind the cucumber shrouds, there is a tangled mess of sprouts - small things out of order, that I don't remove because it crosses my mental border.

On the mossy path stones, I always leave a way to eventually walk along
With someone to show him around in everything I own, like I'd do presenting my own home.

When I met you, I thought I could accept you behind my gate, yet I knew almost instantly that you'd not like what you'd see, I knew that you'd hate.
Hate the way I arranged the flowers, tug at the loose twigs of the gooseberries, rip the sprouts,
I knew you'd not remain calm in my ears, you'd shout.

But I guess I'll never know.

Since in your own sacred garden, only wilted weeds grow.