The poet who loved the garden
I wrote a hundred poems, all loving and bittersweet
I used some words of wisdom, to manipulate their faith
I almost ripped my heart out, to smell serenity's scent
I tried to bandage the bleeding, to return what had been lent
I remember the scar it gave me, and the rose with only thorns
I planted it in my gardens, but it strangled the beauty and growth
I watched as the colors were wilting, blinded enough not to care
I wrote a hundred poems, for a love that now is not there
I used some words of wisdom, to manipulate their faith
I almost ripped my heart out, to smell serenity's scent
I tried to bandage the bleeding, to return what had been lent
I remember the scar it gave me, and the rose with only thorns
I planted it in my gardens, but it strangled the beauty and growth
I watched as the colors were wilting, blinded enough not to care
I wrote a hundred poems, for a love that now is not there