Garden

If depression was a garden and hope was a flower, It wouldn't bloom here. It would decay and rot from the inside. Petals fragile crumbling Never soft, never vibrant Grey. The garden isn't all things life It's past tense The storm that followed the rain but never stopped Puddles turning into sinkholes. All consuming. Rage is here in the gaps of the soil Sadness burried within decrepit roots Depression is wishing something would bloom. Anything. Just once... Fist to the ground screaming "Please" This substrate isn't built to sustain life. Strife. This garden is full of sustaining doubts and droughts all the same. Wasting away in my head. I'm wasting away inside it. Do you see it? Can you tell that this very moment I'm swaying, Nearly intoxicated by the lump in my throat. But here I am in lawn and garden. Watering flowers. Wishing I had something inside me that would be vibrant like these roses and not the dead petals beneath my feet. Trying to will my wasting into wildflowers.