I am the dying rose no one dares to touch, my petals black and no longer full of pigments or life.
My fragility being my weakness as my petals slowly fall, one by one, until my last reason to hold on stands.
There, the one who lies before me, is the beautiful blue rose, ever so weakened by my failing health.
His petals glow so slightly, a pigment so bright not even the thousands of stars could compare.
His petals are a swirl of white and ice blue, a galaxy with it's own stars, ones that never burn away, his sun is the internal core, a stunning white that's shines brighter than even his petals.
His petals are what keep me seeing, keep me hearing, for without them I haven't the reason to go on.
My last petal would fall and I would lose my right to call myself a rose.
I am a black rose, and he is a blue rose. Forever matching, our stems are attaching and I can finally live again.
YOU ARE READING
Poems by Someone With Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. (PTSD.)
PoetryPoems are by me. Inside this interweb book is an abundance of fear, pain, anger, depression, and emptiness. It is not much, it may not be anything, but it is who I am. You may get to know me, if you really try. Even so, you may read if you'd like. S...
