In this patch of dirt are seeds.
Water each and they are deeds.
They grow slowly with weeds.
But they still bloom in breeds.
Sometimes it's bright, and nice to see.
Sometimes it's dark, but still filled with beauty.
Inside there's a lot of secrets, all untold.
Outside is the place that I'm forced to go.
It can be filled with agony, and filled with pain.
It can be snowy, even at times it can rain.
I see the horizon mixed with its array of colors.
All mixed together, a sight like no other.
I can picture things in all these signs and shapes.
I can't help but to wish to be in this place.
Monuments of greatness and towers of height.
Gardens with flowers, and bugs that don't bite.
I feel regret in times of despair.
I feel alone, especially when it's not there.
I can't always stay, I wish I could.
It's the only place where I'm really understood...
There is no right way to write a poem, for poems are free to invent.