Nothing But Weeds

Being a friend is like being a farmer,
Of that I’m now sure of.
You plant friendship firmly in the ground,
And give it your time, hard work, and love.

Being an experienced planter,
I should have known what to do.
I should have better handled
The way I dealt with you.

The plant grew strong and healthy,
A lush crop was in store.
But after a lapse in judgment,
I appeared a farmer no more.

I knew to let it mature
Would be best in the long run.
But, I made a poor choice,
So it ended before it had begun.

In the hole that I left there is nothing but weeds,
With sharp thorns that prick my skin.
So I walk away from the plot, and try to learn,
From the friend who could have been.