How come problems decide that they want to arise constantly in my life's garden?

They are the weeds that want to choke my flowers;

some of them are still buds, making an effort to blossom.

There is no such thing as a perfect golden being.

I will never be one to profess that;

that is not what I am,

but, why?

Why do problems fall on me like a rainfall,

soaking me from head to toe?

Every person has sins that stain their shirts.

Sometimes I feel as if my existence is the root of other people's problems, too.

If I were to never be, would it get better for them?

What kind of help am I, really?

Maybe I'm overthinking, as I always do.

Sometimes, it seems as if problems are restless.

They never tire themselves out; they never stop to sleep.