Poetry

Your Garden.

Do you really understand what it means to be happy?
You say your cold hearted but darling all that is bruises and pain.
In my rib cage I hold a garden and I am the shelter for which it grows.
When I go down so does every plant.
I've cut the roots many times and burned the shell.
I gave it the wrong ingredients knowing its polluting my garden.
What if I told you everyone has their own sun?
The thing about the sun is it burns, but it does more good than bad.
The story to this is if you ever expect to be happy, expect sadness.
If you respect the garden you respect yourself.
If you love the garden you love yourself.