Thorn begins with thorn,
a dead letter from
the Old English alphabet.
It’s an aborted branch,
a weaponized nipple. It draws blood
instead of expressing sap, Mother
Nature red in tooth & claw,
rose-hipped or hawed.
But of course it doesn’t bother the bees,
for who needs a needle
to thread the seamless labyrinth
of the rose?
He is my rose,
Pricking my finger and drawing blood,
But also sweetly tempting,
My melody,
Haunting me in my dreams,
But also calming and soothing,
A poem,
Leading me in circles, confusing me,
But also helping me understand life,
I have many ways to look at him,
My rose,
My melody,
A poem,
But he is always there,
Unmoving,
Unshifting,
A rose sitting on it's bush
With thorns down the stem
That makes a finger go
Drip drip drip
Red splattered paint
In the winter snow
Drip drip drip
The pain will stop
Once you let go
Of the rose
Thats holds the pain of red splattered paint
A bright morning
I opened my door
Didn't found anyone
But just a red rose
Very lonely and alone
I took it to my room
Wondering who kept it there
Assuming the colour
Dark red
Red as blood
Deep as ocean
Gentle as touch
Pure as love
It doesn't matter who kept it
Only matters was love
May be a day will come
A single rose,
Buried,
In her hair.
The scent,
Of blood,
Tainting the air.
Her last words,
Fleeting,
From her mouth.
She's free from worries,
Fear,
And doubt.
Her soul can wander,
Forever,
Hopelessly lost.
Her body,
A blooming rose, so perfect.
Yet, do you see the thorns?
A friendly smile, so casual.
Behind it, how many lies?
A helping hand, so welcoming.
The true intention is?
A cut on a wrist, attention seeking.
Hell yeah, you wish.
A thousand stars, in the night sky.
Reflect only the moon?
A gentle kiss, so full of love.
Or is it just pure lust?
A small sickness, over soon.
Or lead us to the end?
A spark of fire, so weak and fragile.
Could cause a town to burn?
He throws a quarter
and a dime, into the sun
clutching chardonnay.
Rain drips down the ledge
my friend sleeps in the back room
two hours to sundown
Southbound SUVs
caught in mid-morning commute
are varispeed snails.
I could wager on
which stone a raindrop might strike
and lose yet again.
Late-night bus tunnel
forgotten, tomorrow
the blue of train 16
Four green lights hang back
my eyes must be rose-colored
for thinking you stopped,
thinking it was safe to breathe,
safe to live again.
no matter how long it lasts,
the peace always ends.
The winter air cold touches my skin
The road with no crowded people
The birds flying away
The red roses displayed
And when I touch my finger bleed
So I drop my blood in the water
I see the Christmas lights sparkle
The branches with snows on
My hair flaws when the wind breezes
I sit on a bench alone
I started to write my love poems
My silence...
And for what felt like the millionth time
I told them to stay, to wait,
stick around, smell those sweet roses
and that things would get better, eventually;
please stop dancing with the razor's blade
and come down off that stirr'd chair.
But they ever-so loved the chair,
as they stood there all the time
lingering, twirling that ebon blade;
and I could only urge them to wait
in hopes that someone, eventually
would help them with those thorn'd roses.
Though they did remind me so of roses,
sprawled around a gardener's chair
that he'd get around to dealing with eventually,
but letting them withstand the test of time
I was once a rose,
in the garden that i was planted in.
I Provided myself with everything
that i needed to grow.
Well,
that's until you came along,
cursing me with your presence.
Not only did you stun my growth,
You also transmitted a virus
One that continues to foster me
in the worst ways possible.
“Behold, Ladies and Gentlemen, the heart!”
The venerable doctor professor said, holding up
The bleeding heart in his hand, fresh,
Of the young man, dead, on the table.
“Now, I cut it laterally into two,
Observe the atrium, ventricles, aorta etc.”
The heart still throbbed, blood dripped,
And thought to itself;
How little these men know!
They see the chambers and think them
To be empty.
Empty they are now, but he,
My dead man would remember
The hopes, the dreams, the loves
He held in them not so long ago.
‘I am not just a piece of flesh and blood’,