But roses are indeed red.
Usually because my wandering hands doubt the keenness of their thorns.
Similar to how I doubt the sharpness of my love.
Red with passion, then with pain.
Still, beautiful.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 1:37 AM UTC
But roses are indeed red.
Usually because my wandering hands doubt the keenness of their thorns.
Similar to how I doubt the sharpness of my love.
Red with passion, then with pain.
Still, beautiful.
In one of my older sketchbooks, I drew a picture of the rose I gave a woman I admired. I later redrew that rose, but it had thorns, and on the back, a sketch of a man who cut his wrists with the short poem "No shield could protect me from your sword," because she practically broke my heart.
That's when I found Faith. She... that was an adventure i won't get in to right now.
Faith broke me, so I went back to the first girl, with a name too beautiful to mention here. I was so close with her, but, I couldn't follow through.
Then I found my lover.
