Tuesday, February 13, 2007


My friend Louco wrote this poetry and sent it to me. I liked it so much I decided to post it here. He said it's all mine so don't you dare copy it and post somewhere else! I'll hunt you down if you do!


What's your name?
That, you shall not reveal.
'Cause everything that you look at
seems to be looking back at you
and you don't like it.

So, I'm calling you 'The Poison Rose'
So fair, lethal and innocent,
Since you are not conscious of how much your poison hurts.
To you the whole world is monochrome
And the real meaning of the illusion
Is yet to be told.

Only the wind
Is supposed to brush your petals
And all the ones around you seem to fade,
Not completely because you wished so.
And then you feel frustrated,
Because the field now is too much empty.
It is too late to call'em back
And you wouldn't do so, anyway.
Finally, you might see that there's no sense in being such a rose,
So smart, special and distinct
When there is no one around to testimony it,
Or when the only ones that may resist to your scent
Are the other roses from your bush.
Their poison feels exactly like yours, and you don't like it.
You'll never notice how similar your scents are.

Then I may call you 'The Poison Rose',
Still naturally untainted by the real stain,
Either by chance, luck or even time,
And unknowing that the thing you want the most
Is precisely what you should never had.
Your poison keeps you safe,
And keeps you alone as well.
Who dares to get closer to such a deadly rose?

For the first time I notice, you never
Really meant to be so.
You simply don't know yet of the other scents
That are unfamiliar to your world, and so you're trying
Madly break through the walls to let them in,
Disregarding the ivies and weeds that shall follow.
It's just the way of nature that all beings long
For what they never had,
Even if it's sad,
Cause happiness means nothing without sorrow,
Beauty makes no sense with no repugnance
And rose gardens and their scents are useless
when you've never seen the stinky marshes.

And that's why I might call you 'The Poison Rose',
Even if I do so with regret.
As in a white piece of linen or a sheet of paper,
There's no complete cleaning for the spots, once they come.
Run wild, rose, cause that's your nature.
You shall become what you long for, eventually.
Whether being picked up one day, or growing wild
Whatever happens to you is yours to decide, to enjoy
Or to atone for, if that's your will.
Just remember that roses that people stare at through the glass
Might miss the warmth of human touch, as time passes.

(Painting by Garmish. Pierside Gallery)

1 comment:

Ednilson said...

Hey there, dear child! Greetings from Otouto's Lair!

Heh, I'm glad you've enjoyed so much this piece of poetry. I just hope your readers do so as well, either they say anything about it or not ^^

Sorry for taking so long. I'll start your answer soon enough, I hope ~_^

See ya!