Lipstick & Dandelions

The neighbor, bless her perfect lawn,

said, "Your roses look quite drawn."

And yes, they did. Like me, half-dead,

their wild thorns reaching, all unled.

I bought a lipstick, brutal, cherry red,

to paint a smile on a face that felt bled.

No shovel, though. No time for dirt,

just guilt and shame, a silent hurt.

The crabgrass thrives, a nasty green,

where once a hopeful shoot was seen.

My plastic can, it sits there cracked,

a broken promise, wholly lacked.

The dandelions, bright and bold,

are all the stories left untold.

I stand here, painted, quite a sight,

ignoring growth, avoiding light.