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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required "His touch is like a poison, withering my rose, Burning from the inside, black out to the last of the longest petal tip, Ashes beneathe his fingertip, gone with the wind...." Delicate and sweet, fragile to the world. Strong and sturdy, thorny. Such a sweet scent, soft to the touch. Red as blood, green as peace. I gave my heart to a man. I cried enough tears to water my rose. I put in the sun to brighten up, cheer up little rose. I trusted this man with my rose, big mistake. His touch is like a poison, withering my rose, Burning from the inside, black out to the last of the longest petal tip, Ashes beneathe his fingertip, gone with the wind. I watched her sweep away in the wind, It was raining that day; it was pouring. Maybe it was really the heavens, Or maybe I was really crying, I can't recall. I just remember one minute I felt him warming my rose with his voice. I remember the way she smiled when he brushed her cheek. That love pouring out forth from her very being. Never felt such a rush, such a trust, such a touch. He smiled at her, and took her into his arms, And for the very first time, kissed her. I remember how she'd stretch her leaves up to the sun, Smiling all her previous fears and hurts away. She heard him say he loved her, she was glowing. The dew from the night before, came and went, Time and time again, it never stuck, never stayed. She kept getting picked, kept getting pruned, But always kept healing and coming back. She'd lose her petals, lose her color, But in time she'd be back the same again. Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter. She'd survive and beg to be picked, Picked by the right man who wouldn't let her wither. Always the wrong one. His touch is like a poison, withering my rose, Burning from the inside, black out to the last of the longest petal tip, Ashes beneathe his fingertip, gone with the wind.
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