In My Hands

Something grows, but I feel dead inside
Lost to the battle, weeds pulled up and tossed aside

I am not new anymore, used and thrown away
Withered and dried up, left to rot all alone

When something comes to life, I lock myself
Deep inside and pretend to have died, every time

What is the trick to growing healthy and beautiful?
Why am I so full of poison and death instead?

I’d like to learn the secrets to this kind of magic
But no one’s ever bothered to teach me how to love

Have to look through the glass and wonder if it’s even

Possible to learn, or will everything die in my hands?