The poetress who loved the garden

I wrote a hundred poems, all loving and bittersweet
I used some words of wisdom, to manipulate your faith

I almost ripped my heart out, to add serenity's scent
I tried to bandage the bleeding, to return what had been lent

I remember the scar it gave me, and the rose with only thorns
I planted it in my gardens, but it strangled the beauty and growth

I watched as the colors were wilting, blinded enough not to care
I wrote a hundred poems, for a love that now is not there