The irony of the doubt
Of the one that came out of my mouth
Is that this head won't make flowers out of words
Or gardens out of stanzas;
That when these hands write or type
None would be so quite the hype,
That words would be just words:
They are, yes, but the irony is that it still hurts;
When I said I can't make more out of a word,
My head sabotaged me, albeit absurd:
I made flowers out of words
But, out of nowhere, it'd hurt me:
For the thorns of the rose I plucked,
From the garden I thrashed, crocked,
To the truth that the one I plucked the rose for
Would do none but to abhor;
Now I cry, knowing,
What the irony of the doubt would sing;
How I'm bound to fool myself with words,
And hurt by them, soon after;
How this heart would endlessly flutter
Over love that is destined to falter.