Weeds are multiplying, procreating
       recklessly -
indifferent -   breaking though pebbles
on my garden path.
They look like clover planning a gardenary take over.

I pull them placing them
in the brimming bucket -
                          brimming with green -
then into the trash bin.
What gives me the right to uproot them?

I am a giant.
            These are my castle grounds.
Bugs inside, I catch in a cup,
          freeing them in my garden, but weeds?
I have my limits.
I must defend my lawn from united weed usurpers.

What makes a weed a weed?
Weeds grow,
       haphazard,
where          they do not belong.
Perhaps then...
    some people are weeds.
Or perhaps,
there are no weeds at all.