Manicured. Pristine. Elite.

The grass looks greener across the way,

Lush and thick, no hint of decay.

But step too close, take a deep inhale—

The scent will tell a different tale.

Beneath the shine, beneath the glow,

Lies filth you’re not supposed to know.

Manicured, pristine, elite—

Yet every root drinks composted deceit.

You envy what seems polished, bright,

A picture bathed in perfect light.

But polish fades, and light distorts—

Behind the scenes, a different sort.

There is always some shit—believe it’s true,

Whether theirs, or mine, or even you.

No plot is pure, no field is clean,

Every garden hides the unseen.