Growing Violets.

I wish there were

a better word for

sad.

Gloomy, dismal, and blue

just don’t take like

codone, kush, and Beam.

I need something

that sounds

less clinical than

DEPRESSION.

Even though,

that’s the right word for her.

With a twinge of mad,

she’s back again.

Hopeless.

Sick, and grieving.

Sandwiched in between

the blurred lines of

working on herself, and

falling the fuck apart.

Another way to let you know

I’m not alright.

Either way you slice it,

I’m lost.

Wandering.

Tripping.

Falling.

Like the rain on my pane

Filling the river,

Flushing out the wicked

Evil, dark and twisted,

Roots beneath the

Story of my life,

that I can’t pull up like

dandelions.

Choking out the

violets I’m trying to sow,

And grow.

Make a wish.

Before it’s too late for me

and my Earth to produce

anything beautiful

at all.