I look at you,
a rose.
Sturdy, tall, slender.
Each petal
perched to perfection.
Not a thorn to be seen.
Radiating a scarlet like no other.
You and your
"perfection."
I look at myself,
a rose.
Wilting, frail, fragile.
Petals
shedding and breaking.
Thorns threading the stem.
A lusterless red coating.
Nobody desires my
"imperfection."
Looking at you,
you vibrant rose.
You're appreciated, desired.
Iconic to any other rose
lacking your "perfection."
Looking at myself,
a fading, dying, rose.
Stepped on, ripped by the roots.
Nobody desires my
"imperfection."
You can tug around
my fragile structure.
I can't stop you anyways.
I'm breaking and falling to pieces
as you abuse me.
My petals are gone,
the color is lost.
All that remains are
the thorns.
Thorns that p***k
and pain your life.
Those that eat away at
the flesh meeting it's touch.
Those that never leave.
You've destroyed my color,
you vibrant, red, rose.
You've taken it with all your
bloody, cold, heart;
cold from the roots.
All you left for me to bear
were the pain of these
thorns.
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Diary of the Midnight Rider
Only a meager glimpse into the wanderings of my mind, and the works that such wanderings create when written with a pen.
Editors note: Many of these poems, and thoughts, come without a date; however most of these aren't too recent. Alot of this st
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Toga IV
Community Member |
