He was my rose

Beautiful from afar


I'd always bleed

After touching him

Vyscern Feb 28

The rise and the fall
Of the rose petals in a storm
Left to defend with only thorns
And already more than halfway gone

The scent carries on the wind
Of this Rose, I'm guardian
Guarding what is left
Of a beauty left in the past...

Because although they say true beauty never dies
A rose wasn't built to last

Steve Page Jan 31

The inner city rose garden
Rested high above the fumes
Soaking in the filtered sunlight
Like the tired old lady on her balcony
After her third marriage:
Still colourful
Still fragrant
And not without her unfair share of thorns.

kayleenCyr Jan 4

dark smoke clouding around me, so thick my eyes can't push through it. My hands, feeling my surroundings grasp onto a rose, pricking my finger with its thorns, a drop of light blood appears. Twirling it between my fingers i realize there is light within the darkness.

cait-cait Dec 2016

you are unloved,
undissolved in a world you
watch through glass

and once again,
you are nine; in the bathroom,
on that floor, as
the blue tiled walls reflect,
and replay
over and over and

you wish that
you never truly woke up, from
the strange mix of dream
and reality you
succumbed to long ago,

like a princess, at
wrapped in thorns

you'd never have had to pack
that sleepover bag every time
he made you cry,

even as the tv still played
cartoons, snot still
ran, and you still
bled (and left).

no one loves as much a i do
Erin Suurkoivu Sep 2016

Sometimes I am more

thorn than flower

but a rose is a rose is a rose

mk Aug 2016

you handed me a bunch of thorns;
and blamed me for not thanking you for the "roses".

-wrote this over 6 months ago.
matter of perspective.
Tehreem Aug 2016

She just wanted to be his shadow
He took away her light
Blinded by the frightening darkness
She walked on the thorns

In the stream of tears.
Poetic T Jun 2016

On a swing of deadened wood she would
Swing, holding upon these slender ropes of thorn.

Piercing onto flesh, but always held on as
Though to fall, but tears bleed from this motion.

Back and forth, white became red as a head
Slumped forward and motions carried on as hand frim.

This dead wood sat upon a rope of thorns
Motioning the seeping tide  that with each gesture flowed.

Grasping fingers ridged as these swings, each
With heads slumped, bleed a little and swung always evermore .

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