PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

A rose.

Supposedly sweet.

Gentle and calmly it grows.

Rose petals and stem whole.

So majestic its beauty.

Today is the end.

I will make my story.

Wind that sweeps and burns my face.

Gusts and gales tug at my dress.

Dragging me to walk away, to be saved.

In my garden a flower blooms.



Its fragrance is sweet.

It intoxicates me.

Hair ragedy and blowing in my face.

I know what they all say.

They have their theories.

Never loved enough, abandoned.

Unlock the door to my garden.



Pebbles and cobble stones line my fate.

A storm approaches over head.

Master did call for it.

Down the path, where the weeds grow tall;

Sits a lonely rose bush.



My eye to catch it as I stand front.

Pure and innocent.

My finger traces the edge of the petals.

Outlines of destiny.

The world can not enter my garden.

Just me and the flowers.

I don't need this life.



Roses sit in the approaching nightmare.



Roses here are not red.

Until they have been stained.



My hand cups a beauty of life.

Petals newly opened.

White fabric brushes my legs and sides.

The wind picks up speed and the sky is black.

Dreamily I pick a rose.

The tallest one.

It looms over all the othes.

My favorite.

Tiny drops splash on the knife in my hand.



The rose releases itself out of the soil with a sharp cut.

Gently I run my finger along the thorns.

Just like them, deadly to a point.

Sharp and precise, just how I like them.

Smelling the sweet beauty brings me to reality.

It adgitates me.

Too pure.



Deception overwhelmes me.

Fabrication kils me.

Damnation cradles me.

I drag my fingre across the oppisite point of the rose.

Pointy and dagger-like.

A drop of blood, not water.

Nothing stings or burns.



I can't feel.

My heart beats quickly with the adrenline.

Pain becomes evident.

I can't look back or run.

This excitement beats in my head.

All this anger and disastor held within my chest.



A line of crimson.

Defiling the rose.

The thorns leave tiny lines along my wrists.

Deep colored red turns the rose pretty.

Thunder rumbles and the drops pour.

I am the rose.

Once pure.

Now tainted.

The leaves picked off.

The sound of rain in my ears calms the fear I have.

Standing on the soaking ground.

If a knife can cut the rose to free it, then I want to be free too.



In my garden, flowers bloom.

Red as blood.

Seeping into the soil.

Quickly the flowers drink.

Greedy and blood-thirsty.

Demanding attention from the one who cares.



White is now red.

Pure is now tainted.



Manipulation forms denial.

They can't save me now.

A rose trimmer lays in the distance.

Covered in the paint of life.

Smiling, I lay myself to sleep.

My eyes stay alive to witness the truth.

Reality is now fantasy.

The real world is now my world.



Rain pours nto a blood-red dress.

The clothe spilling crimson.

Pooling confusion and sorrow.

Nothing is now what it had seemed before.

Smile creeps upon my dying face.

Thousand words will kill.

Frustrating everything.

But resurection will decieve me.

It will not relieve me of this feeling.

I love the way it feels to have your heart corse through your body.

Beat by beat.

Waiting or death to kiss you good night.



Screams in the distance awaken my peaceful slumber.

The sound of metal against wood worries me slightly.

But my end is near and now.

No one can stop me.

I hear the begging, the crying.

But it wasn't true in the begining.

Light comes to the surface.



Flowers bloom in my garden.

If love was red, then my heart is spilling onto this garden.

Tightly I clutch the tiny brass key.

Its too late to unlock my heart, or my garden....