Portraits

Nothing hurts more than a painted rose.

Delicately painted roses wither

In the hands of a wretch;

Serving only as a mockery

With every line that’s been sketched.

 

She shaded endless skies

Consisting of every puddle I wept;

And embellished scarlet petals;

With every crimson tear I shed.

 

Then she rose with her canvas,

Walked off to paint another;

Left with an incomplete portrait,

I lifted high the razor.

 

Gashes in my skin,

I confronted my beautifully maligned;

Burgundy flowing out my veins,

As I begged her to complete mine.

Author's Note

I know, I kind of lost the vibe near the end. No need to tell me; I am quite aware of it.

Reviews

[Serena Kaye]

My gosh Ryan, beautiful

[xxxrawr_friendxxx]

You are so beautiful. Really... It hurts to see a once magnificent rose, that you painted without realizing it.

[pumpkin head]

wonderful read, emotional as well.

[Legolas]

Great poem. It is true, painted roses huurt very much.You displayed your feelings very well through this. Great job.