May I speak breathless thoughts into a microphone?
I hold my tongue with clothespins, some might say I'm tongue tied.
But I know that roses sprout from the pavement.
I hate roses, they're plain and unspectacular.
Instead I prefer rich white lilies. Everyone does.
From the stem to their petals shaped in a teacup.
I drink ambrosia from their form. Roses prick.
Still I was raised in a concrete jungle. No lilies in sight.
Roses don't lend themselves to consumption.
One must go thirsty when plucking a Rose.
In lieu is an aroma, cheap perfume to deafen the senses.
My Mom is a Rose. My Sister is a Rose. I am a Rose.
We all smell. We all prick. We all speak.
Though I still find myself panting, I feel free to love.
I hold my tongue with clothespins, some might say I'm tongue tied.
But I know that roses sprout from the pavement.
I hate roses, they're plain and unspectacular.
Instead I prefer rich white lilies. Everyone does.
From the stem to their petals shaped in a teacup.
I drink ambrosia from their form. Roses prick.
Still I was raised in a concrete jungle. No lilies in sight.
Roses don't lend themselves to consumption.
One must go thirsty when plucking a Rose.
In lieu is an aroma, cheap perfume to deafen the senses.
My Mom is a Rose. My Sister is a Rose. I am a Rose.
We all smell. We all prick. We all speak.
Though I still find myself panting, I feel free to love.
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