The Rose...

Crooked and bent,

the petals looked heavily dusted

and kind of crusted.

The thorns are the sharpest.

The sharpest I’d seen, I touched it

and realized I was heartless

cause I didn’t bleed.

I loved it.

I bent over and touched it again.

I wanted to pick it up.

I spent five minutes

debating in my head.

It was a rose that grew in concrete

on the sidewalk of a tiring city street,

but nobody noticed.

I was on my way to the liquor store.

I was ready to get a bottle of Jameson

to drown my hard day.

I guess that’s what the world made of me.

I had 0 faith.

I picked up the rose and took it home with me.

I took care of it and truly nourished it.

I even revived a bit of its beauty.

It inspired me.

I wrote pages and pages of poetry.

I wouldn’t go out.

I didn’t engage in other activities

because of what I had at home waiting for me.

It was a miracle, a life of glory.

It told a great story

until I noticed, it was starting

to wither away

slowly.

I found faith. I prayed every day,

But I don’t think God heard me.

The rose that grew from concrete

crooked, mean and dirty

died on me.

I cried for days.

I showed up to work late

until I stopped going.

I had a dream

about a man who told me

to keep my head up and smile.

So I did, but I faked it.

I think he knew it.

He handed me something like a seed.

It was motivation

and he promised that I could start

a garden on the concrete

through poetry.

I planted the seeds.

Now, I’m waiting to watch the growth

of my family.

This is for you, Pac rest peacefully

and I will send you my roses.