I'm looking through the rose bush pricking my hands.
Dripping blood for chances at love.
1 cut two cuts 3 cuts for me and my selfish ways.
Me, my bad habits,
and my constant look for a praise.
I circle your circle like you are my prey.
I keep watch like my clock does.
I keep my hands out to catch you when I trip you.
I keep doing these things that I say I'm gonna stop.
So I don't get you how I'm about to get you.
The rose bush left me battle scars.
As did I to it.
Every cut on me was taint on pedals.
A dammned color.
But that's ok because now we're matching.
YOU ARE READING
Beyond
PoetryThoughts and ideas that go beyond the norm. Words that together sum questions and answers to what we see each day. Beyond what we question and imagine. Through the works of poetry collaboratively an expression of what I imagine beyond what I truly s...
