What you forget is that plants themselves want to live as much as you want them to. More.

I feel helpless, hopeless, too low to call out, too weak to think. Impotent tears dribble down.

The long days seduce all thought away, and we lie like the lizards in the sun, postponing our lives indefinitely.

You will always have value and nothing can change that.

Knowing it can always get worse, I try to be grateful for whatever good I have.

But those with shattered souls find it very difficult to speak.

I am over-run, jungled in my bed, I am infested with a menagerie of desires: my heart is eaten by a dove, a cat scrambles in the cave of my sex, hounds in my bed obey a whipmaster who cries nothing but havoc as the hours test my endurance with an accumulation of tortures. Who, if I cried, would hear me among the angelic orders?