You’re not sick.

It’s a trick of the bramble
To steal the light
Or outright strangle all other plants.

You’re healthy.
Not a sickly flower
No. Your roots are strong.
You have that power.
You’d go a long way, given the chance,
I’d say.

But all is not equal.

The bramble bushes got here first;
Poisoned the soil; slaked their thirst.
The dice were loaded in the prequel.

It’s not you.

You’re planted in a poisoned ground;
Rich roses growing all around.
They mock.
They jeer and call you crazy.

Don’t be a thorn-bush.

Be a daisy.

The brambles, and the roses too, they want you to grow corn.
They’re rulers in this garden, through power, strength and thorn.
They’re growing all around you. They cast a heavy shade.
They tell you not to struggle so: “It’s how the world is made!”

We all start out as daisies. And yet we’re free to be
Any plant we want: forget-me-not or spreading tree.
All we need is our fair share of sunlight, rain and space.
We could make this garden into such a lovely place.

You’ve been bruised by bullies, twisted by the liars.
You were not built to serve those brambles or the briers.

The truth is: you were never mad.
It’s reasonable to feel this sad.

It’s not you.

The pain is real. That much is true
The way you feel can’t be denied:
The hollow aching space inside.

The sorrow.

It’s not your brain.

Your dopamine cannot explain
The pain I’ve seen etched on your face.

This world can be a broken place.

Blame the bloom that’s bruised by frost?
Curse the child for getting lost?
Demand each plant becomes a bramble?
Make children march? Not ever amble?

No.

Not you.

Why on Earth would you want to?