"The chatter of the mindlessness
Mindless topics, mindless time, mindless day.
As my mind escapes,
Mind to thoughts.
My escape,
A rose, thorns drawing blood
Color originating from my ugly hands.
Most are thornless,
But color not as vibrant.
Without the painful price my rose turns bleak and i numb.
Toxic, yes, but do they ever really understand?
The observers or the outsiders or the walls or me or my rose.
My rose, so gorgeous, color so vibrant, the price is nothing compared,
Smell sweeter than molasses, so intoxicating.
It hurts.
Why?
Those thorns, that rose.
It hurts.
No matter how much blood my hands never heal,
The blood running marathons down my hands,
Racing across the ground.
I can't stop,
Then the rose would die.
All growth needs give.
It's a special rose with special rules.
No one understands why i still do it.
But without it i am nothing, i have nothing, i own nothing"
YOU ARE READING
The Stars I Cannot Fathom Into Constellations
Poesía"My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations." ― John Green, The Fault in Our Stars This get kinda dark so read this at your own risk. Not in any particular order, this is just a mess and i sound nuts (i am aware).
