The Book I Will Never Write.

roses.

"you were a rose
that i just had to pick
but your thorns
pricked me and cut me.
Crimson blood
runs down my hand
from where i chose  you.
but the thick claret
didn't bother me.
you cast upon me
a hematic affliction
but i still walked in your garden
and picked your
painfully, alluring
roses."