Thistle

When I was a little girl,

I planted a garden,

In my heart.

I could have grown nasturtiums,

Or pansies,

To make my garden bright.

It might have flourished,

Underneath,

The warmth of the sunlight.

 

I could have chosen roses,

Or tulips,

To make my garden grow.

It might have attracted birds,

Like the gentle sparrow.

 

Instead I grew a thistle,

In the middle of my soul,

That spread across the garden,

To form a blocking knoll.

 

Every now and then,

I see it in my mind,

And I don't know what to do,

When it pokes at my happiness,

And strength and courage too.

 

I find myself searching,

For ways around the pain,

But every path my footsteps take,

Is washed out by the rain.

 

I've tried to dig into the tunnel,

That I keep inside my mind,

Where memories hide safely,

And thoughts are left behind.

 

I have no choice but to face the thistle,

And all that it may be,

To discover why it is there,

This unwelcome part of me.

 

I may never really know,

But I feel that I must try,

To understand the pain,

That I always have denied.

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