In a patch of roses, all should have their beauty.
Yet there are some that are lost,
no tranquility to be bestowed.
This one is blue,
blue as the icy blue eyes that I have fallen for.
On which I slipped
The others are red,
crimson as blood.
The others mock at the lone one.
The one fallen at the bottom of the crest.
Unable to be seen or heard from again.
YOU ARE READING
I don't understand
PoetryLately, I've been pushed through a bunch of heartaches and pains. I'm lonely, but.. I'm starting to see that I dont think I matter really anymore. Is my existence really worth keeping in peoples lives?
