Watching her get
dumped again... Will she ever learn?
Signs point to no.
And so I get that same head
crying on my shoulder once more. Like all of life's more beautiful
cycles, this has come before, and will come again. This time however, a poem uses my hand to write itself on a
napkin. Seems worth saving, somehow. Give it to her later on, and she smiles.
If you make them smile, it was worth it. Smiles are contagious, and shortly we're both in better moods. It strikes me as
fitting, somehow, that words should hold
so much power where more concrete things have failed miserably. Maybe all that crap about
penis mightiers had some substance to it, after all.
Dead Roses
Sleep offers no peace to bloodshot eyes
tears turn to streams, and streams to puddles
she lies on her bed, bleary eyes on the door
as a shrine of dead roses lies on the floor.
It has been three days since last he called
three more since he said goodbye
her eyes grow red as her heart grows sore
and a shrine of dead roses lies on the floor.
Why do we see it to be so fit
to celebrate life with something so fleeting?
she now hates what she used to adore
that shrine of dead roses that lies on the floor.
Petals shrivel up and fall to the ground
like so many wrinkled red memories
he was her hero, and she was his whore
and the roses he gave her now die on the floor.