Thoughts provoke us, like wind that blows

Unseen by us, but ever felt,

Nicely warm or bitter cold

Unto us, it gets its hold

Like the weed that never asks

But sprouts before us in our path

So little different from a flower

Yet, hated for its power

The power to latch onto soil and soul

Despite our efforts or human toil

One wanted the other not

Like the focus of our thought

One brings pleasure one brings pain

However, in the end they are both the same

Yet, one needs care to keep it there

The other stays as if to dare

Daring to be stopped, not asked or wanted for, even so

The weed not wanted ever grows

And in our effort to remove it from our soil

We constantly toil and toil

Frustrating our will and our might

It has no concern for our plight

We remove it in the hope

That something else might learn to cope

We plant a flower in its place

Care, tend, and hope for grace

Yet, the flower dies before us

The weed grows on, to ignores us

Both weed and flower come from seed

Whether planted, sown, or born from dust

The results appear the same to us

Yet, the weed gets the blame

Because unwanted, it gets the shame

The guilty gardener accepts the blame

Darkness surrounds us like a fog,

Yet more pervasive, like a mob

The agony of the mind

When the weed turns to a vine

A vine that strangles hope and light

And chokes the flowers from our sight

Kill it kill it

Some will say

But are they with you on that day

The day the weed chokes the flower

And demonstrates its mighty power

Or do they only see the flower gone

And ask themselves what went wrong

Seldom is the choking seen or heard

Without denial always has the final word

Yet sun and water is what they need

To make it from a seed

We water with love or hate

But the flower this will soon dissipate

Yet the weed holds on, to whatever it gets

Its needs, its wants, always met

Plus the weed sets roots very deep

That invades our lives, even in sleep

However, the flower roots are so shallow

Moreover, can wilt within the hour

But not the weed, oh behold

It is ever, oh so bold

It cannot be denied, pulled, or stripped

Even apparent death won’t loose its grip

The flowers beautiful yet so trite

But the weed is there every night