It wasn’t real, that connection you held up like something rare. It was only your restless emptiness reaching outward, never inward where truth lived. There was something in you, a rare kind of wrongness, not loud, but steady, growing in the quiet corners You refused to clean. Your habits sank deep, roots of neglect and excuse, feeding on your comfort, tightening around any chance of becoming better. Inside your chest, something lingered, not wounded, but slowly rotting from everything you chose not to face. Your words carried weight, but not wisdom, dirty with judgment, falling on others as if they owed you effort You would never give yourself. You dreamed wildly, expected greatly, Yet moved nowhere. Laziness sat in you like spring, fresh, alive, growing stronger each day You chose not to change. And so you became a tree, Not shaped by storms, but by stillness. Not broken, but unused. A tree that stands alone, roots deep in wasted time, branches stretched with empty wants, leaves gree...
The mind was once an orchard, green and wide,
Where careful thoughts like summer apples grew.
But neglect crept in, with comfort at its side,
And sweetness spoiled where discipline once knew.
Ideas fell heavy, bruised before they landed,
Left in the dirt, ignored, unnamed, unseen.
Mold crowned the core of dreams once carefully planted,
Turning bright intention dull, bitter, and mean.
Days tangled like rooms never cleaned or aired,
Promises stacked like trash along the wall.
A messy life, with corners long unshared,
Where silence learned the echo of the fall.
Hands that should sort truth from waste and lie
You chose ease, you chose delay, later, and soon.
And so the orchard watched itself slowly die
Under a careless, unwatchful moon.
Then came the tears, salty and sincere,
Crying over fruit too rotten to save.
Grief for the self that once lived here,
Before bad habits dug their grave.
The pain was real, but so was the blame—
Rot does not bloom without neglect.
A ruined mind, a whispered name,
A mess built brick by brick, choice by choice, step by step.
Yet even rot feeds soil when buried deep;
From decay, new roots can rise.
If the keeper wakes from careless sleep
And dares to clean, to prune, to try.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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