(no subject)
Have you ever really thought about the wilting of a rose? I think it's sort of depressing, really...something that is considered of great beauty, but knowingly has it's thorns while that beauty thrives. However...what happens when the rose wilts? The beauty is lost, and all that is left is...the ghastly spectre of what once dwelled there. The life that is lost, and yet even then, the thorns remain. Is that the only constant as it finally falls to the ground and returns to the dust of the earth? From the time that it raises to it's full life, until it returns to nothing...the thorns remain constant. Do I have a point, am I getting to anything with this? I'm done. I think I have made my point in my heart, but there is much I cannot confess with my own tongue, or fingers in this case. I'm sure people find me to be crazy enough, as it is.
I wouldn't be suprised if someone were to accuse me of just trying to sound poetic. But I could really care less, poetry is nothing if there is no meaning in it. I don't type these words to sound impressive.
I wouldn't be suprised if someone were to accuse me of just trying to sound poetic. But I could really care less, poetry is nothing if there is no meaning in it. I don't type these words to sound impressive.