the Rose that grew from concrete...
the delicate face
of a fragile beauty...
guarded by some tough exterior -
dutifully unacknowledged.
indeed, achieved a great a feat
but still
buried underneath their feet.

everyday trodden;
not once a chance to thrive -
effects of a circadian stampede.
A Rose
that grew for a simple life,
but the beauty within had died.

Her leaves she let wilt,
took every blow she was dealt -
dull thorns now to speak for.
color drained with a droopy stem,
wishing away dark clouds
so then maybe
she would
See more.

Rose.
could she have had it all?
her existence left her nothing.
party of one and the place is full of Rocks.
a stand-alone soldier in a grave situation;
the hurt wouldn't stop coming;
should we pray for such mercies?
she figures...

no singular mercy could unseal her fate
the blade of society is sharp and
against her soft petals it continuously scrape

...when you've felt one pain you've felt them all.
senseless emotions
trigger moisture in the stigma
finally a drop of color -
to the concrete it would fall
rich red
like the Flower
that once cracked those gray walls.

Once upon a time
There was a passion,
Like burning fire,
Boiling water,
Saturated with desire.
The thirst of needing to be seen,
To be heard,
To be free as a soaring bird
Was unquenchable and
Unquestionable.

It was so clear
It ruled out the anxiety
And the fear
Of being judged
Being wrong
And being crushed.

Now that passion has burned out,
Drained,
Pale;
What is left is the anxiety
The possibility
To fail.