In every garden
In every row and aisle
There always seems to be too many weeds
Throughout the fields
All rampant, random, and wild
There always seems to be too many weeds
I never thought much of the garden
Until the things I loved were choked
I never thought much of the field
Until the nightshade cut my legs
I'd hesitate and second guess my way
In my garden
I know what I like and I like what I grow
And I'll pull out all the cull and leave the things I desire
And in the field where everything grows
And the mower never mows
I'll stomp on what I want to
And cherish the things I desire
I built a wall around my garden
When people started telling me what to grow
It's cold and callous and casts a heavy shadow
Over the fields I choose to call my own
I hate the wall and its selfish display
My garden becoming sterile in it's pretentiousness
My direction lost in shallow righteousness