I would’ve loved writing poems about roses
had they smelled a little less
sweeter, had they been more honest,
their thorns more pronounced,
like glares, or frowns,
or hairs, or crowns,
or princesses for that matter, or even
moon and stars.
Roses entice me too much that I
begin to believe they’re too good to be true,
if this says a little more about myself, or
if it says a little more about you, but then again
the roses bloom even without me loving them,
and roses, I know too well:
they dry too soon, and die too soon,
quicker than any poem can tell.
— A. P.