You gave me a red rose to hold on to
I clutched it hard to never let go
The thorns bruised my delicate fingers
Hot liquid as red as the rose oozed out
Still I tightened my grip
Loving the burn cause it was for you
Only for it to be snatched away from me
By none other than the giver
To be given to someone to hold close
Now the wounds on my fingers have disappeared
But my heart is still bleeding for you
The rose fits her hands just right
Fitting like a missing puzzle piece
I guess the rose was not made for me
It was something meant for showing me the thorns
Teaching me not to be blinded by the beauty of the flower.
YOU ARE READING
The language of heart<3
PoetryThis is just a collection of random poems ,some random thoughts.
