Eight million roses,
bright and elegant.
All blooming for you.
Rich in color, fed with life,
all presented before you.
Swollen fingers and sore thumbs,
I'd take it all to give you eight million more.
Scratches and thorns cut through my skin,
as I tend to the petals through countless nights.
Eight thousand more,
A world anew, petals fall in such grace.
The art of nature blossoming before me,
all this for you.
Long nights further await me, eyes heavy, bags dragging. Yet, I stay awake, push past what I should take; making the flowers bloom. Anything other than seeing you gloom.
Eight hundred more,
thats all that's left.
Hurry, hurry, they have to grow. The stinging from the thorns don't hurt as much anymore. All this from keeping you upset. I'll have to try my best.
Eighty more roses,
spare me enough blood to keep on.
Sun rays collide with the glass, signifying yet another dawn. Please, just hold on; don't frown, and just sing me another song.
Eight more roses,
that's all that's left. Dear, wait for me-I finished a lot of them, all done with my very best.
Curling the petals, wrapping leaves, tending the stems, all the work; just to see you
leave in the end.
It wrenched my stomach-almost made me hurl.
What if I had only finished sooner? Would you then be happy? Was it too much to hold my thorns, too much so than to embrace the beauty of my roses? Could tulips and daisies have been better? Did you forget all my love letters?
Eight more roses,
thats all that was left.
Never to be finished, now that you have left.
YOU ARE READING
❀ƒᴇᴇʟɪɴɢs❀
Poetry(2017) A book about feelings + freestyle poetry (?) I wrote some of the most cringe and emo shit, so bear with me.
