i am not very good
at a lot of things;
i cannot paint
you pictures
because the beautiful
things in my head
cannot be translated
nor can i sing to you,
as my voice has an
uncanny habit of
falling flat
nor can i play for you
as my fingers fumble
when my thoughts
cross over to how
you look, watching over me
but i can brush the
knots out of your hair,
and work the knots
out of your back
when your day
has become too
much to bear
i am not good at much,
but i will be good to you
YOU ARE READING
deadroses || poetry
Poesia"we had a vision though, now we dead roses" now, why did she send them? these broken down, wilted, beat up, rotten-looking flowers.
