She was the thorns to my rose.
Touching. Pricking. Bleeding.
Yet she was stronger than most.
Crying. Screaming. Free.
Anyone who neared
would be caught.
Anyone who feared
and anyone who thought.
She would poke.
Shooting. Firing. Aiming.
Yet you would choke.
Faking. Blanking. Blaming
She was the throne to my rose.
Screeching. Fleeing. Bleeding.
One cut and I was left enchanted,
left loving, needing, and pleading.
But nobody could touch,
without the aftermath of blood.
YOU ARE READING
To The World
Poésie"the inferno of words would be my demise if i did not express them." #501 in poetry #640 in poetry #689 in poetry #692 in poetry
