• skillett 9w

    I used to cry over his poetry,
    Wishing those words were meant for me,
    And envied the tears he shed on her behalf,
    Instead of being gifted with anger from his painful heart.

    I used to watch him wrestle with his feelings for her,
    While I was desperately pining and searching for an affection lost,
    Somewhere embedded deeply in a rose garden he created in memory of his love for her. 

    Tirelessly, 
    He would sow and plant new seeds into his garden, 
    Sometimes with my help. 
    And while he was unaware,
    I would plant a few seeds of my very own.
    But not a day passed by that he did not take time to care for his field.

    And when the time was right for the roses to bloom,
    The ones he sowed would grow,
    And the ones I grew would not flourish;
    Ultimately driving me to plant new seeds into his rose bed.

    Until one particular night,
    I entered his garden,
    To water those seeds,
    And noticed how he used his tears to water his rose bed.

    And that is when I knew
    I just could not move his heart,
    So he could not shed a tear for me
    Hence my seeds never blossomed into beautiful roses,
    Nor was he able to bleed his pen into his sacred pages about a love he could not feel.

    And now,
    I'm sitting here,
    Bleeding your existence into my sacred pages,
    Grateful that those feelings were never reciprocated;
    Because I have a rose garden of my own,
    Filled with my growing affections for another.
    And although he does not know he is the object of my fantasies,
    This garden is now a home I do not want to leave.

    #rosegarden #roses #lettinggo #moving on #love #unrequited #unreciprocated love #poetryoftheday

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    His Rose Garden

    And now,
    I'm sitting here,
    Bleeding your existence into my sacred pages,
    Grateful that those feelings were never reciprocated;
    Because I have a rose garden of my own,
    Filled with my growing affections for another.
    And although he does not know he is the object of my fantasies,
    This garden is now a home I do not want to leave.

    ┬ęskillett