| |
There's a figure at the door,
Is he there to capture me?
If I struggle, will I bleed?
I cannot stain the white rose my mother gave to me,
She'll know you were here,
And will soon come after you,
But whose to say that I'll complain,
When she rids us of the pain you've put us through,
Washing the blood from her hands would be too sweet,
To have to comfort her broken heart has been a constant struggle,
My emotions cry with sorrow,
And I ache for smiles and tenderness from her,
Waiting for a love that will never come,
Her insides ache from your everlasting torment,
Will I care if she deals with your ignorance?
I let the blood stain my little white rose,
But whose to say its mine?
My blood is pure and red with laughter and love,
but blackness runs through your viens,
so my little white rose is stained with blackened hatred,
but whose to say I'll care when you scream,
and die,
Whose to say I'll forgive you and your blackened soul,
You live to torment and hurt,
but whose to say I'll care when you leave us forever, whose to say I'll care when my little white rose turns black and you slip away forever,
Whose to say I'll cry when you fall away,
Into an everlasting darkness,
Take my little black rose,
And bury it away with your darkened heart.
|
Help Us Stop Plagiarism -
Nearly all works at PnP are original. However a few people choose to plagiarize.
To check, choose a phrase from the work, then either drag and drop to the search box or copy and paste.
click on search and works at Google will be shown which match. Just to be sure, please do this before
you recommend or rate the work highly...
|
 |
|
|
|
Select a Random Work from Poetry
|
|