NovelSisters

This winter our rosebush outside has had some beautiful roses bloom and stay on the bush for weeks. Seeing them reminded me of this poem I had written in college from a rosebud’s perspective.
I hope you enjoy it.

Rosebud

 

You’d think I’d be proud.

Everyone knows the rose:

I’m always wanted for weddings,

apologies, Valentines, even the tango.

 

But you don’t know me at all.

I’m sick of that kind of attention:

I don’t want to be clipped,

pruned, removed,

sitting in a glass vase,

dying slowly.

That’s my worst nightmare,

 

locked inside, or worse yet,

hung upside down till I’m  a dry

crisp corpse, then put on display

yet again.

 

You know the real reason for my thorns?

They’ve grown to keep you away.

 

Why can’t you let me grow

and die in peace with my friends?

Simply satisfied

in smelling our sweet

scents mixing in the spring air.

 

Please find a different symbol

for love,

one that doesn’t require my death.

Posted in Poetry, Writing

Tags: death, life, poem, Poetry, rose

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