Can I get a piece of garden?

There are no trees
growing inside off me
just some veins, arteries
maybe some tumor, or baby
Inside off my mouth
no branches bloom out
just an ordinary human tounge
with taste bulbs
I have no wings for I can not fly
I walk and torture my legs, my toes
In my head
there are no wars
no angels with shiny aureole
sitting on my shoulder
and God doesn't come by
for a chit chat
I bleed and sweat
don't suffer for nations
I also don't talk to the ghosts
One day I'll die
become a mouldy flesh
on the bones
but still...the tiny fact
like having a tumb
puzzling words up
in this funny inconvenient way
or abstract thoughts
makes me glow
out off the crowd...