Roses have thorns for a reason.
If they were all beauty with out defense
Those hard, sharp edges
Extending from their stems
They would be easily plucked and clipped
Taken advantage of.

They would be used
For some hideous centerpiece
That would be adored for a few hours
Than ignored for weeks

Until the water turned black
Leaves rotted and decayed
The petals dry out and fall
Leaving bare stem remains.

Leave me in my garden
Where I am surrounded by friends
The daffodils, lilies, white chrysanthemums.

The hard working bees
Could make delicious honey
From my sweet nectar
That would be taken to the hive
And served to the Queen.

The words I speak
Are my thorns
Verbal warnings
That I am not to be reckoned with.

Release your the sheers
Remove your greedy hands
Grab me like that again
My thorns will make you bleed
You will be sorry.

Truthfully speaking,
You will never be a rose.
Even if you tried
You would result as a ****
A blight, a disease
Pulled from the ground immediately.

You are a hideous creature.
A monster.
Without you
I am stronger.

I am not a dandelion anymore
Easily destroyed
From a meager blow.

Let me alone
I am a Rose.

“No, never her, not that girl”
Little did they know that her web of lies was waiting to unfurl.
Beauty, brains, she had it all as some would say,
But depression became the predator and she the prey.
Confidence that others would **** for,
A mask of self-assurance she wore.
How could one who had everything going for her,
Become her own saboteur?
Ran, she did for months, even years,
Hoping this question would eventually disappear.
“Are you okay?” “Yes, I’m fine,”
Others never knowing the desolation that haunted her mind.
Feelings, earnest thoughts, locked away, hidden on a shelf,
And in the process she buried herself.
Into a hole she thought she could never escape,
Till one day she’s found in a bed wearing a hospital cape.
“No, never her, not that girl,”
Little did they know that her web of lies was waiting to unfurl.

I let you into a very exposing and vulnerable side of my life.
I am very fragile and sensitive.
The more you claim I am perfect, the less real I feel.
The less human I feel.

Perfect is not real.
Perfection is a perception.
I don’t want to be labeled as anything that is not me.

I don’t like it.
I will not allow it.
I’d rather choke than swallow
Those thick sticky words.
For once I’m happy to be
A picky eater.

I am not a body.
I am a soul.
Words I have said before,
But now found myself shouting
Loud enough to have you back away
Far enough to collect some space.

Your thoughts about me
Are not reality, just a fabricated fantasy
Created in your head.
I am not a made up character
Or this fleeting entity, like a fairy;
I don’t need claps to exist in this world.
I don’t need your beliefs for me live.

My skin has been hurt again and again.
Through my experiences,
My layers have thickened
Now calloused, and stiff
Which is why I’m self-conscious
Of holding hands.
And you’re not the man
Whose fingers I want to be laced with
Or tracing the tracks of my spine.

I am a hand written letter.
Never delivered
With an unlisted address
And words still unfinished.
Save your kiss, lips, and spit
For a different envelope
Don’t spend your pennies
Or waste your postage
On the mail that will come back to you.

I am free.
I am air.
Limitless, boundless, and ubiquitous.
Toxic if overdosed.

I change, never staying the same.
I circulate the room, and cannot be contained.
And **** the day you dare even try.

Watch me overflow, and spill all over the floor
Creating a sloppy mopless mess
Oozing through the edges
Seeping between the cracks.

I will not be held down
Wings clipped
And cage nailed to the ground.
I will not be suffocated.

I am air.
Yet, I cannot breathe.