rotten roots

my mind grows wild and twisted
tangled like a topiary needing trimmed
but it's behind my back and i'm blind
besides, even if i had an angle and eyes
my bare and blistered fingers would fail
and i haven't a cent to my tainted name
much less a tool that could ever tame
the thorns that i thought were there for me
providing protection and security
i didn't know they would draw my blood
if i twisted and tried to lift myself up
and no gardener could have any gloves
thick enough to allow him to love
my rotten roots and horny thorns
i'd rather sap from soil some disease
than allow the rain and rays to please
brittle branches withering away
preferring the ease of slow decay
i need another to hold out a hand
of hope and hatred for wasted land
because my brain is washed of any thought
that i could ever become what i'm not
i'm not a sight for eyes long sore
i haven't provided anything more
than shade for beetles and bugs beneath
my tangled frame and greenbrown leaves
but i'd rather have to turn my face
to cutting shears and pruning pain
than continue counting down the days
of wasting away in my slow decay.