we love flowers when they’re already dying.
we water them,
trying to save them.
trying to keep them for as long as we can.

you watched my petals fall to the ground.
but that’s okay.
because that’s when we love flowers the most.

Her lips.
Rose petals
dipped in honey.

Serenity slinks
through the rafters.
Dripping between us
we float on memories
get drunk off rosepetals
eyes outlined in blak
and fases framed in kolor
shining within spesifik angles.
Smiling, your hands
karess my liberated heart
and split it in two;
but we're just sharing a bit of fruit
and when it dribbles - just a little-
down your lips
I know that I will miss you

Is it odd that
I have yet to write a poem for you?
A poem full of rose petals, a heavy scent
that traps us in each other's arms

I have not put my heart into words for you,
perhaps because I tell you all the time,
Sprinkling the roses over your head
so you know how I feel

I show you how I feel in every
move I make around you,
in every word I say,
so perhaps that is why

I haven't written a love poem for you
because my feelings are already on display
We dance in a rainfall of rose petals,
drowning in the scent of our love.

everytime I meet someone, they want nothing but ****** pleasure.
same words being used,
"If we have ***, than you can be my girlfriend."
is *** what blinds you males to realize that the women who wants to treat you right, has more to offer than just ***?
she is not like the rest,
yet you treat her like she is.
she's trying to find ways and reasons,
as to why you keep treating her like the women you played in the past,
you keep telling her,
that she isn't like the last,
yet you keep admiring her body, more than her mind.
not reminding her how beautiful she looks,
as she struggles everyday to find beauty in herself.
sees you look at others, as she looks at herself, and see that what you see in them,
isn't what she has,
but she's dying to want it,
and by dying,
I mean she's physically hurting herself in everyway shape and form to become like those women who you love so much,
without even having to say it in words.
she knows that *** isn't the only thing that she has to offer,
and she's trying to make it stop,
show her worth.
but knowing he wants nothing more but that,
is what makes everything worst.
its more than just ****** pleasure,
she is an angel.
yet, you continue to throw her down,
lower her self esteem,
instead of building her,
you destroy the inside of her heart,
rotten her to death, with your poison of ***.
and each and every time,
she finds herself wondering,
why cant you notice that there's more to this,
more to ***.
more to this.
more to this.
more to this.
more to ***.
***.
***.
***.
***.
***.
more.

Dripping like hot molten rock
Liquid gold it just won't stop
Dropping like rose petals to the ground
The splashes of red is all around

I've seen that face
So full of sorrow and disgrace
I've seen scars like those before
The demons are poring through the door

Let them come, I don't care anymore
Living has become to much of a chore
I scream and yell, trying to get someone to care
But no one will, learned long ago life is so very far from fair

So I'll take my pills
There suppose to cure my ills
But they don't, nothing will
Living my life takes to much skill

Anguish is over running my cup
I'm so very close to giving up
So if you don't see me come tomorrow
You'll know I couldn't take the sorrow

Six years old
My pretty box
of pretty things
a little girl's collection
a pebble, a purple sequin, a lock, and a sticker, pencil leads, and a rose petal I found on the ground in the rain but I ran back to save it.
Precious things
Collections of the young will always remain a mystery to the jaded adults who grew out of simple happiness far too long ago
Then one day
My box slips off the counter
and I search desperately in the carpet for my pretty things
tearstained face and choking on sobs
not my pretty things
not my pretty things
I find my pebble
I find my purple sequin,
my lovely silver lock,
my special sticker,
all three pencil leads,
...but my rose petal
is gone
except for a couple crumbling dried pieces of it
on the ivory carpet
and the rest of it could be anywhere
I can't find it
it's gone
it's gone
my pretty, pretty rose petal that I loved so much
that I saved from the rain
...but sometimes even if you save something... or someone...
from the rain and love it for a long time, when things fall, you can lose them forever, knowing they are crumbling and not whole anymore
but you can't help them
What you save and love,
you can still lose.

Repost if you had a box of pretty things when you were little.
Comment and tell me what they were, I love to read comments :)