A rose they grew with his feelings, warm,
His love, water, her love, the thorns,
Watering her rosy lips, he bled,
caressing her thorns, feelings she shed,
he bled, she shed, her lips were red,
he leaned, it seemed, a kiss now gleamed,
reaching for it, he advanced,
into her eyes, he failed to glance,
she grabbed a thorn, wanting to stab,
he kissed, she missed, he held her wrist,
told her how he loved that she exist,
She smiled, felt mild feelings storm,
while over time, his lust formed
into the deepest of the loves,
a dove she was, evil somehow,
he lay still, she grabbed a thorn,
he smiled, she smiled, he wasn't warned,
she broke his heart and flew away,
he thought 'let's write a poem today'
Copyright © Samay Raina | Year Posted 2015
If a poem or essay can end with a conclusion or its opposite, either one,
Can it be of any use to anyone?
Do the discrepancies and disparities, dualities and densities, reflect only
Of the bearer of the pencil?
First entertain, then enlighten if you can. One stretches truth in order to
another leavens with levity one’s inevitable end.
Most days it's not possible to bring your life into an expressible state.
arduous chores, word choices. And, of course, the state of the state.
Driven by ideas rather than rhymes, for it is not metres, but a
That makes a poem. Convenience store or university English
The day's arguments, down to the meaning of the weather, leave you
To share your heart of zero and your inner rose.
It is the strong force, the energy of the loved ones combined with
cooperation for good or war.
Dad's years in New Guinea fighting Japs, he said, were his best by far.
The best that can be said or done is Be where you are. Love the one
Not necessarily an adult of the opposite sex, perhaps just a kid who
And school, dresses goth, reads rarely but learns a lot from movies and
Has the presence of mind to say I am who I am, deal with it. That's who
I want to be
And have always been. Today clean the house, again. Woke up this
morning to two thoughts:
How sweet to be alive! Life is tough.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015