Thorns In Blue Roses
My pretty damsel, my dear
she said with her alluring lips
in a tease, with a playful tug on my heartstrings
she wanted a poem about herself
to entice my thoughts, to intrigue her complexities
to save her from the mundane wolves
she of all people fall under their spell
like she has me under hers
She wanted a poem but shook with slight discomfort
as I bore my soul into a masterpiece
for her namesake; another romantic component
to put in her already established collection
always exclaiming she doesn't deserve me
when it is I that doesn't deserve her
In all honest opinion, what I wrote for her was only one side of the spectrum
the spectrum that submits to her majesty
that wishes to constantly see a smile upon her lips
a beautiful contortion of all she loves and knows to be real of me
the part that loves her more than I care to lead on
while I hold back truth she can't possibly stomach
I silently despise her, I silently crave her attention
pardon me while I quote Ponytail Parades by Emery
for it does scare me to think
that she could find takers other than me, better than me
everytime we speak, her head is elsewhere
and I speak enough for both of us
so in desperate attempt I try to keep the conversation engaging
to keep from enraging
yet she only permits 5 minutes of her time
then like wind in the night
she's off enjoying her next sight
What most would describe my situation
is love misdirection
that I should pack my metaphorical bags and move on
yet you just don't get it
I don't feed her compliments like a baby in a high chair
I don't cling to her for mere obsession
I, a robotic puppy, don't sit around waiting for her orders
waiting for her 5 minute return to me
She, in my eyes, is everything in a woman I could ask for
from her opinionated thoughts and demeanor
to what makes her laugh, her social anxieties and excellencies
she's perfect in many ways
but apparently from her star-studded kingdom
I'm irrelevant when three years prior I was the name upon her lips
the hand to grace hers
I was hers well at least so I thought
so the only story I can have myself believe
I can't make heads or tails of my tangled heroine
Why do I call her mine
yes she's apart of my life, my thoughts, my dreams
but she's a separate entity and I can't control a separate person
though in contrast, her captivating eyes find ways to control me
She's my Pink and Discomfort
a bed of thorns in blue roses
but it's not my fault..we love who we love right
or is it me who loves who can only destroy
Copyright © Andrus Cassian | Year Posted 2016
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