A rose's thorns glide over my skin,
Each one grazing my gentle hand,
I give the rose a small spin,
And think of how I can hardly stand,
The pain of wanting something so delicate,
But knowing it will die when summer grows late.
Ah, I was such a foolish girl then.
I did not learn my lesson from my bright red rose.
So when there came the threat of men,
My heart was the one that chose,
Chose to give my world to him,
And soon my world grew far too dim.
Alas, my love, he did have thorns.
He tore at my heart without a single thought.
You would think that my soul still mourns,
However, I rage at the fact that I sought
To clip off the thorns of such a colorful flower,
Who, in the face of commitment, would cower.
The older I grow,
The less bizarre it seems.
The changes of man are a steady flow.
And, even though he is only in my happiest dreams,
I still hope my rose will come to me,
And set my tormented soul free.
YOU ARE READING
Poems of a Passionate, Puzzling, Pale Person
PoetryA little book of poems I've written recently! A few joyful, a few solemn, a few in between. A few about nature, a few about humans, whatever suits your needs! Enjoy! (Those were the only P adjectives I could think of to describe me on the spot. Than...
