Faced value

What is a weed?
An idiom?
Something not in need?

Can my pursuit of compassion calm the tension?
I'm full of questions, marks, bruises and pain.
I want a bed warmed by souls reminiscent of summer rain.
I want the cover of night to kiss my eyelids and bring sweet.
In between every breath I can feel your peace.

There is a garden where I fill my cup. Favorite flowers grow there. In the eyes of their petaled faces, I see the friendliness of childlike curiosity.
I smell lavender, jasmine and spicy fragrances, dancing across the buds, and the extension of my tongue.

Prickly feelings of atrophy are going away slowly.
Blood starts to rush to the places that were numb.
I wish I could grab the head of the oppressed and press it into the dirt, in anger, in jest. Breath deep. Emerge with dried grass in your cuffs, and bugs in your hair. Don't forget to wipe your feet and leave your senses there.

We fight, because we are the faded sides of the same coin....
All of us, abused, spent, rubbed, gambled, tossed in the gutter, spat out by the vending machine of society.
When the collector comes along, we are reinvented and remembered.
Our plain metal selves are anxiously awaiting to be molten down and made anew again by the cosmic coin maker.
Flipped, fashioned, pressed in "trust", anyone's the taker.