blunt thumbs

I planted seeds but nothings growing,
racked my brain but nothings showing up
I try to play creator,
what I makes not worth the paper
I think that's the human secret-
We're god's fuckup, not his genius
When
he put hand to Adam's flesh he
made his first unholy mess
And since I was made in his image
I make fuckups just like he did
Everything I try to shape;
it's wobbly, the lines aren't straight,
it doesn't rhyme, it can't hold weight
It's burnt and warped and
full of intent no one got
I may as well have planted rocks