to me love is like a rose garden
you walk down each row
admiring the individuality of each
every rose is beautiful
like love
they say not to pick the roses
what is everyone picked them
meant to be admired not touched
i am guilty of picking the roses
they sit in a vase in my room
i seem to pick the roses that remind me much of myself
usually delicate and light
not classic
yellow
light pink
you used to give me light pink
you knew who i was
delegate
not fulled bloomed
but exotic and beautiful
love is a rose garden
i want my own.