In a closet tight, my plants take flight,
Whispering dreams of a future bright.
With soil so rich and water light,
I’ve become a gardener, a true delight.
“Too much love,” they say, “can cause a fright,”
As I talk to them daily, blasting tunes all night.
Oh dear plant, please don’t take a bite,
The bugs arrive, such a wretched plight.
From valuable trichomes, they seek to incite,
The gardener’s rage, a furious fight.
With neem oil spray, I’m ready to smite,
As my whole garden quivers, but lands in spite.
The grow light’s cheap, a flickering light,
“I swear it works!” I shout, trying to write.
With nutrients mixed, I’m plotting my height,
To grow the best flowers, a true delight.
Yet all I’ve bred looks like a scraggly sprite,
“Is that a cannabis plant or just sad insight?”
As the weeks roll on, I wait, hope ignites,
“Is that a bud?” Oh wait, that’s just a slight
Glint of despair in my plant’s dim light,
With yellowing leaves, a pitiful sight,
“Such stunning results!” I say, full of spite,
As I ponder my future, just how did I write?
But here comes harvest, oh what a fright,
Scissors in hand, I’m ready to bite,
The sweet, fragrant buds that promise delight.
Yet tangled in stems, I wrestle with might,
Sparks of confusion fill the dim light,
“Honey, I swear there’s more here, that’s quite right!”
So here’s to the growers, in closet and night,
With dreams of green magic, what a bizarre flight.
We laugh and we cry, in our own little plight,
As we dig deep in soil, trying to get it right.
Though the journey is tough, the buds are our light,
With high hopes in hand, we’ll keep our spirits bright!
Hazy Humor is licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0
