I held all the blossoms you grew in your yard,
What about the bruises on your heart?
Rose without bruises isn’t profound.
I could hold your smile with my blue eyes,
and could hold your gashes too, in my pot of love.
So tell me when it’s uneasy for you to survive,
Tell me when something is bothering you in your life.
Grab me with your dirty hands too,
Which are filth because of the responsibility you owe.
I don’t want your yard if it just has sprouted in it,
I want the grass, the soil, the thorns too,
Beauty is should be rare and true.