A Million Gardens

Yesterday you tried to destroy me,
With words on a screen,
I kept telling you to stop,
But the arrows kept penetrating,
And I couldn’t look away,
A digital car crash,
An unnecessary war,
One that is always present yet hidden,
Guerrilla warrior;
Spread your unnecessary poison directly into me,
Your words are agent orange to my screen.
As I showed up to your door,
Painted blue and white like your messages to me,
I walked into a bear hug,
Like you were trying to hold up a limp casualty,
When tears poured like jungle rain from my face to your high grass below,
All you could ask in your yard was,
What could you be sad for?
And when I told you how you had tried to destroy me,
A suicide bomb of emotions on a screen,
You just said:
“Well, that isn’t this me”.

And those words stuck to me,
Like scarlet letters sewed into my chest,
A million gardens in one machine,
A million gardens put to rest,
A million petals that are pesticide,
A never ending line for a roller coaster,
When there isn’t actually a ride,
A million gardens in one machine….

A million dancers not even dancing,
A million casualties from battles that don’t even exist,
A million invisible clenched fist,
A million droplets of fake rain,
A million robots trying to make us insane,
A million articles that are all fake,
A million wars fought for oil,
A million contradictions in this soil….

A million gardens in one machine.

What ties us together?
Are there any ties at all?
What kept you and I together?
Was it that you weren’t actually you at all?
What do you believe?
Is it different from your brand?
What brand do you believe in?
Is it the same as those who branded you?
What are you doing today?
Is it what you want to do?
Or is it so you look the best you can….
In the competition of likes and views?
Where do you plant seeds?
Do the seeds exist in the dirt?
Or do you buy the seeds?
So you don’t have to face the actual earth?
Do you want to leave a mark?
Or do you want the mark to leave you?
You’re a garden locked in a machine,
Willingly enslaved to something you call freedom,
The chorus of history repeats…

We call it gospel instead of blues….

The chorus of history repeats,

We call it progress instead of regression,
We call it a straight line instead of a circle,
We call it a utopia instead of a distopia.

Never been so many opportunities to be alive,
Juxtaposed with a tenfold increase in the rate of suicide,
Privatize your own prison please,
Lock your beauty and hide your seeds,
A million gardens in one machine.

I walked into your house,
We talked for hours and drank chai tea,
But when I walked out of your door,
You proceeded to try to bury me,
Guess all I can say is,
Please,
You’re a million gardens,
Locked in one machine.

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