my rose is crying.
the sound of the rain
fills the room as the mist
creeps in through my open window,
caressing the flower on my windowsill.
the drops
lick the petals as they fall
from the eyes of my pretty flower.
the pitter patter of the pollen
strikes the windowsill
as the flower sobs,
heaving its leaves against the window screen,
drowning the voices of the people underneath.
the cool breeze through the open window
blows more tears from the rose’s eyes-
i feel for my flower.
i care for my flower.
i am my flower,
crying out for you,
but my voice gets caught in the sound of the rain.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC
my rose is crying.
the sound of the rain
fills the room as the mist
creeps in through my open window,
caressing the flower on my windowsill.
the drops
lick the petals as they fall
from the eyes of my pretty flower.
the pitter patter of the pollen
strikes the windowsill
as the flower sobs,
heaving its leaves against the window screen,
drowning the voices of the people underneath.
the cool breeze through the open window
blows more tears from the rose’s eyes-
i feel for my flower.
i care for my flower.
i am my flower,
crying out for you,
but my voice gets caught in the sound of the rain.
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