she's a rose
but she isn't the flower;
she's the thorns,
bloodthirsty;
the more she drinks,
the more she grows,
sharp right up the end
and
the deeper it stings,
the more we'd know
how it feels like to suffer,
the longer it heals.
we're just victims,
not her sweethearts.
she's the thorns of a rose.
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she pricks like
the thorns of a rose,
but is as sweet
as the aroma
of its petal.
-n.d.
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blue | poetry ✓
Poetryhis name is blue. he's color blue. he thinks blue. he feels blue. he's always blue. ©aloeverasie2017
