Tatiana 3h
I don't like roses.

Their meaning weighs on me too heavily.
The red screams of a passion
that is one-sided,
for I don't believe I can return
such emotions.

I don't like roses.

Maybe I'm just with the wrong person?
And that's why I feel no passion.
I struggle so much to get romantically involved
and it makes me feel broken.
They always give me those damn flowers.

I don't like roses.

I don't know what love is.
Though I know what it's like to care.
These flowers are too focused on the idea of love;
a cliche, cookie-cutter, romantic option,
that seems safe, yet it puts me in a depressive fit.

I don't like roses.

But, I really wish I did.
I really wish I did.
© Tatiana
I struggle greatly with romance and getting close to people. As a result, many of the things that are staples of "romance" make me feel uncomfortable. I just don't want to feel like I'm broken and I wish it was easier for me to just enjoy these romantic things. But, I don't like them. and I don't like roses.
Emily 1d
Oil we are,
Growth is far.

Not in winter,
Growth is bitter.

But in summer,
It’s a hummer

With a scent,
Strong as paint.

Not the chemical,
The strong level.

For its purity,
Makes a jeopardy.

With every scent,
It varies hint

Used in love,
Red is done.

Yellow, pink, white,
Meanings with light.

I like red,
It’s strong said.
Sorry this was an attempt of making a poem with 3 words each line, same syllables and rhyming every second. I don’t believe it was a great attempt but more will come I’m sure!
Ashley 1d
Two
Two tulips, two tulips.
The two tulips love each other. And they both love tulips.
The two tulips hold hands. People cry, people scream.
The Two are split up.
2 tulips become 1 tulip, and another tulip.
A tulip, forced to marry a rose. The rose didn’t have a tulip.
The rose only had a Rose.
“A tulip and a rose is the way to go.” People shouted through out the streets.
Tulips and Roses. Women and Men.
Gay? LGBTQIAPD?!
I knew of a boy who cried wolf

He was once a bright soul

Shattered by something he saw

That day

He screamed in terror as we just watched

His cries echoed by the utter silence and oblivion surrounding him

At first we were quiet, then we laughed

But we didn't like him much

So we ate into him if we got agitated

Took our anger out on him if we wanted

After all, to us

All he could do was cry



So the story goes



With no remains to bury

For the troublesome boy

That always seemed to be haunted

By the wolf inside each and every one of us




We didn't deserve him
Roses and Sunbeams


Her scent wafts alongside her and sinks into my heart;
For I have become fixated, by a desire for her touch.
She was glorious and overpowering, from the very start;
I am hooked and addicted to her love; she is my drug.


She leads me to distraction, for in her I eyes I am lost;
Hopelessly infatuated with her, I see only roses.
She brings me to Heaven and my trust is all it cost;
For she believes in my faithfulness and in her pocket are posies.


Her words are like sunbeams, bringing light to my darkness
And our candlelit romantic nights; shall never be soiled.
She can remember my love and forget any bitterness;
For I am here to cure her heart and our love can never be destroyed.


She is eternally locked, within a memory of happiness;
For she brings me warmth, when all else in the world is cold and black.
I am alive when our hands are together; embrace me my Goddess.
For I am enslaved by your beauty and I shall never fondness lack.


I have no need to speak to her of my lust for her body;
Because she can see clearly how much I love her; I glide.
In her arms I am forever gladdened, by her proximity;
But if she was ever taken from my eyes, I would surely die.


I need her presence beside me, to guide me along;
This story of a life, as of yet unseen by the world.
But inside her I find, I am locked forever, she is our song;
She is a poem, a poetess, a masterpiece…she is my girl.


She is the flick of the last paint stroke, on the Mona Lisa;
She is the full stop at the end of a play by Shakespeare.
She is the last chip off the shoulder, of the Adonis sculpture;
She is the seal to enclose the writings of a scripture of literature.


She is the last second of pregnancy; she is a new born baby.
She is the last, she is unique, she broke the mould; she is reverie.
She is the Gateway to Heaven; she is the perfect lady.
She is Gods day of rest after a week of creating humanity.


She is the last heartbeat of my life and she is love…
She makes me complete…she is the perfect finishing touch.


(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
"Stop and smell the roses" is an ironic cliché,
cause doing so literally would be viewed strange.
Roses are red
Today I dread.
Laying in my bed.
Listening to the sounds of the dead.
Seeing where everything led.
And what kills are the voices in my head.

                           With love,
                                 Anonymous
Aa Harvey May 10
A poem about football.


Poetry about football sucks.
Poetry about love doesn’t.
Poetry about the things you read about in books,
Shows people what you have learned, like
‘The Boring Book of Boredom’.


A dozen couldn’t appease the woman,
Who wouldn’t listen to your wooden words without wisdom.
You King without a kingdom, you really shouldn’t be so stubborn,
But for true love we fall, all of a sudden.


(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Kaz May 9
Roses are Red and Violets are Blue!
Why keep craving for that someone new

Is it his smile?
Well I smile too

Is it his eyes?
But I've got two

Its not me, No! its You!
You was Bae and I was Boo

my heart marched forward
While yours withdrew, subdued by the view of Andrew

Now my nightmares are alive
and my fears came true

Of how she left me
For a Sexy Tattoo
Mitch Prax May 10
I’m missing what we had;
love, lust - whatever you want to call it,
it doesn't matter.
What mattered was the warmth of your touch,
that angel voice that could melt my worries away,
the safety of your hand in mine,
the safety in your arms.
Call it what you will;
you could even call it a garden:
a sea of blood-red roses,
blooming, blessing all it touched.
But like many roses,
some of them had thorns.
In the end, we found ourselves torn,
pierced and wounded from our roses.
My thorns still remain,
lodged deep in my heart;
do yours still sting?
Nevertheless,
I still tend do our garden,
do you?
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