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.