The Rose: A Poem

Here's some teenage angst...

The Rose
25-March-06

Untouchable beauty,
poison tipped thorns.
So perfectly imperfect,
such is the illusion of the rose.
The purest picture of sin,
even Lucifer would fall to his knees.
The gates of hell never seemed so welcoming,
my own dark lord beckoning me home.
Raising my hand I offer one last sacrifice,
the rose.
Bathed in the blood of my past,
dripping with the tears that I've shed.
The wrists ache for the pressure of that blade,
calling, wanting, begging for this release.
Submission to that weakness,
contact, and I draw my lines.
How sweet this lust is,
how simple the addiction.
This pain coursing through me,
who said life was but a dream?
White hot horror,
all the universes are glimpsed within the shock.
An infinite number of infinities,
concealed within the rose.
I'll hide behind my fears and dreams,
my darkest desires and demons are the chains that bind.
Another nail in my coffin,
alone within this prison of my mind.
Such is the illusion of you,
the rose they lay upon my grave.