Walking down the hall with my head lowered.
My hood up.
Hiding myself from the world.
“The world will kill me at first chance.” I tell myself every day.
The hall is empty. Trash and garbage lie on the floor. Still walking. Life seemed to go in slow motion.
I walk out side the school… the prison… torture house.
I throw myself to the damp moist grass.
So soft, I think to myself.
I look up dazing away in my head.
The world turns to a blur.
Life has no meaning any more.
My heart slows its rhythm.
Thump… Thump thump…. Thump…
Everything is fading to black.
The only color is a dark red spot.
A picture is forming in my mind.
A rose.
The stem is curved the rose peddles a dark red.
I reach for the rose trying to feel it
“Just a touch.”
I feel a wet coldness run through my body.
I jump and role over trying to breath.
I hear laughing.
I wipe my eyes to see who it was.
But all I see are black figures running away in the dark.
One of them dropped something.
I walk through the damp grass moving towards the small vessel.
I pick it up and look at it through the dark.
I screw up my eyes trying to see.
“A rose.”
By Jesse
Boze
-
Author:
Jalso (
Offline) - Published: November 23rd, 2010 12:03
- Category: Short story
- Views: 50
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
Offline)
Comments2
Wow. I like this one. You painted something elusive and yet so real. I can almost identify and yet I cannot. Excellent! Oh,.....and what is it really about?
in all truth i dont know... its like a mix of feelings and memories i just put into one short story im sorry if this isnt clear enough im not good at explaining things :/
Well, I quite like it. Thanks for explaining.
Don't worry about if it make sense or not. If it makes sense to the writer, that's all that matters. And if it doesn't, well, call it your style. The great thing about poetry is 'poetic liscence'. Which is basically a smart way of saying we can mess up the grammar, spelling, ect.; do whatever we want and call it poetry.
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