

That Which You Call a RoseWhen you ask someone to imagine a rose, and then describe it back to you, 99% of the time you will hear a description containing at least a few of the following adjectives- red (or a synonym), budding, soft petals, no blemishes or marks, a perfect red flower. Perfection is such a petty thing, so boring. Unoriginal. Every rose has its thorns (no pun intended), even the ones that seem completely unblemished. Trust me; I've known a few "perfect" roses in my life. Conceited and haughty, thats what they are, thats what they are. And where does being perfect get you, anyways? Stuck in a vase on a mantle, or in a centerpiece for a weddinThat Which You Call a Rose


Drip DropDrip drop, Drip drop Flowing down her arm Drip drop, Drip drop Deep vermilion charm Drip drop, Drip drop The never-ending stream Drip drop, Drip drop Liquid scarlet dream Drip drop, Drip drop Staining ivory clothDrip Drop
Drip drop, Drip drop Her life, her own great loss


A Poem of ThanksgivingI thank you for my pain If I did not have it What would I live for? What would I know to do? To feel? I thank you for this abject misery It keeps me in line It keeps me from thinkingA Poem of Thanksgiving
That maybe there is happiness But this has affirmed my misconstrued memories I cannot be happy I thank you for my broken heart Every time I see your face My heart breaks again And again I tell you I love you But do you believe me? You dont trust me And its killing me Im dying inside And I cannot tell you How can I?  
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Hear the voices in my head, I swear to god it sounds like they're snoring. If you're bored then you're boring. They agony and the irony, they're killing me.
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Hear the voices in my head, I swear to god it sounds like they're snoring. If you're bored then you're boring. They agony and the irony, they're killing me.
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