Roses
Look at us,
Look at us shreds of blood repent
We make such a lovely cavalcade
Upon your grave:
You were as sharp as glass
And as frail as the bone
Riddled with the holes
You loved to write with your mouth

But we were not born
To be the judge of that
       
No, there is no room
For such curtness
We were not made for tart
Unkindness
Now ripped from the thorns
That once loved us so
We are now reborn
To mourn only you

So look at us,
Look at us

The Taphephobe
I am afraid to stain this air
With my madness
My mediocrity
And the bone of hurt that
You have sown
Within me

No, I am a wisp of spit
Unto the cold that slew summer
A sunken pit beneath
Brown mud, ten feet under
To grant an insomniac
Her sleep, but you would rather
Not have me gone besides?

I am in denial,
Longing for all that is
No longer mine.