PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I wish I knew why I always wrote the letters to you in red ink,

Like it was my heart’s contents pouring out onto the paper,

Or maybe it was just the contract of the crimson fanning across the white pages

That I so carefully folded into an intricate heart.

You taught me how to fold those little heart letters,

After you so cunningly crafted one of your own,

Accompanied by a red and white rose,

Maybe that’s why I wrote your letters in red ink,

On white paper,

But I long since gave you those dried flowers back,

Your eyes gaping at me like I just ripped you in half,

Your blood seeping onto your pale skin,

What a contrast,

You said the white rose was for the purity and the loyalty,

And the red for the love you had to offer,

But I should have taken a hint,

Roses have thorns,

Everything beautiful has its flaws,

Its downsides that stab you like Cupid’s arrow,

Arrows are meant to hurt,

And even as much as I wish I could pluck Cupid’s arrows

Out from under my skin like splinters,

It pains too much,

And so I let go,

Only to try again in desperation,

It is going to get infected,

I tell myself,

Your love so infectious that I wish I had taken more vitamin C,

If they had such a thing for that sort of thing,

If you know what I mean,

But I never was one for immunity,

I get sick weekly from you,

I think it must be the memory of that poisonous rose thorn

That ills my stricken heart.



Somehow I managed to dissolve the roses

Into puddles of red love liquid