Painting Roses

The roses she painted were black as the night

appearing abnormal to anyone's sight,

but if you looked closer to her picture's you'd see

the roses she drew, from their thorns, seemed to bleed.

They'd bleed and they'd cry as much as they could.

(As much as a bouquet of roses would).

But more than their creator they could not weep

for she had the greatest of greatest of griefs.

The roses were black: the color of his hair

as last she saw before leaving her in despair.

She cared for him dearly, but 'twas not sufficient

for he loved another--one much more proficient.

She clearly saw she wasn't good enough for him--

crying inside, on the outside she grinned.

But what could she do? What could she do?

Nothing at all. So she sat there and drew.

The thorns were a vivid green like his eyes;

the ones she got lost in so many times.

They bore through her skin and straight to her soul,

grabbed hold of her heart, and made it his own.

He then turned his back and paid her no mind,

breaking her heart one piece at a time.

But what could she do? What could she do?

Nothing at all. So she sat there and drew.

The roses bled red--as red as his lips.

So rosey they were, she unable to kiss.

That sweet gentle gesture--a gesture of love

is a gesture, from him, she'd know nothing of.

Her longing grew as her heart broke and shattered

for it was another who he'd kiss and flatter.

But what could she do? What could she do?

Nothing at all. So she sat there and drew.

She drew bleeding roses as he went on with his life.

He proposed to the girl he had loved--his new wife.

And the girl who drew roses that bled wept alone.

Her heart torn apart so much it could not be sown.

Reviews

[Winter Frey]

I like it. Very nice. Sorta reminds me of Alice and Wonderland.