In my mind, I'm caring for roses.
Reds and pinks exploding
Into dynamic poses.

Sweet aromas dance through my nostrils.
While the vines say "thank you",
By extending their tendrils.

But my hands tell a different story.
The bush lashes out,
Leaving fingers pricked and ******.

Not a single rose in sight.
They've all receded,
Asleep in their longest night.

Sometimes a rose or two will bud.
Blessing me with affection,
Making me think I am loved.

But then it pulls back from the embrace
It digs it's thorns into my flesh,
Reminding me of my place.

It rips away my skin, flesh is exposed,
A burning, raw, painful sensation,
A wound never to be closed.

I know I'm no reason to make room.
But I'll keep tending to this bush,
In hopes that a real friendship will bloom.

The gun shook in his hand,
Finger brushing the trigger ever so lightly.
The barrel felt cool against his temple.
It was strange, considering that soon,
A white-hot piece of metal
Would bore into his skull,
And explore the expanse of his brain.
He wondered, what would the bullet see,
Before it's explosive exit
Through his other temple?
Would see the faces of everyone he loved,
Who didn't love him back?
Would it see the shame, dissapointment
In his father's eyes?
Would it see the pain of losing a friend,
Due to no one's fault besides his own?
Would it feel the frozen blackness
Of complete Isolation?
Would it finally be the one
To understand the wretched feeling
Of loathing his own existence?
These thoughts ran through his mind,
Pioneering a path for the bullet.
The gun weighed a thousand pounds.
With his last ounce of strength,
He pulled the triger, and freed himself.