In the garden of the self

It is now the season of harvest
and the sun shines bright, blinding me with its golden brilliance,
shining as bright as the golden strands of corn and maize bursting forth from my scalp

The rakes that are my fingers
comb through the lustrous golden stalks
as I sit cross-legged and meditate

Inner peace eludes me
so I reach for the garden shears
and trim away the unwanted excesses

The watering can too plays its role
nurturing me and sustaining me
just like the mossy peat beneath my feet

The peat that was formed from all the forefathers before me
has molded me well
and shaped me into what I am…what I wish to be

Yet, you could not stand to see that
could not let me be me
So what did you do?
              You planted a bed of roses on my heart.
              Untended, the thorns pricked through my skin.
              Blood seeped through, coating the already crimson
              petals.