Adriana's Poetry: A collection

53

You say our love is that of a rose,

What a stupid metaphor.

Roses,

They cut deep,

Is that why?

Love hurts but this is just

Unbearable.

Roses,

Attractive but agonizing,

As you fall deeper,

You get caught in those prickly thorns.

You did add color,

The color I hated the most, that is,

Red.

Blooms with the blossoming flowers,

Funny that we can only wish for those pretty petals to remain forever,

Eventually we have to accept its bitter fate,

Wilting.

It did wilt,

Eventually.

Yet not once had I forgotten the pain those thorns gave me.

The rose I once called love

Was actually just suffering.

Love?

There was no love,

It was a curse in disguise.

That might have been love,

For what we perceived love to be,

But perceptions can be very misleading.

I wish I could erase the past

Because as much as I wanted colour,

I hated red.

If I could rewrite my life,

You would've never even been a single chapter

Because you made me believe that I would have a better life,

But I just learned that I should've known better.