Roses are — wait, WHAT color?!?

Obviously, Roses are Red,

…Though only a few,

Where love can remain unsaid,

Even if it’s true.

Plus, Roses can be Pink —

A gentler, joyous rose!

It’s infatuation, I think…

A sweet gesture, I suppose.

Oh, and Roses can be Yellow

When given to a friend.

But if crushing on the fellow,

It likely marks the end.

And Roses can be Coral!

(Some say orange; that won’t rhyme)

They mean desire (sometimes moral—

Or just raunchy all the time).

Roses can be White

To deem someone pure.

Albeit pretty — not "right" —

A chaste judgment to assure.

Roses can be Peach

For modest gratitude.

A state of trust I’d like to reach.

But it’s the success that I elude.

Roses can be Lavender,

For those who fall at first sight

The passionate, impulsive amateur.

Yep, that’s me, every night.

Roses can be Black,

Mostly to mark death

Me, the paranoiac…

Still a scared kid, holding my breath.

But Roses are never Blue.

Though many planters tried.

If one claims to have two,

I guarantee they’re dyed.

To say ’a Blue Rose is rare’

Is an understatement indeed.

They’re difficult to bear

And impossible to breed.

So, of course, they must have meaning —

The mirage we’ll never see —

We’ll only break the ceiling,

If we think before we flee.

It’s a breath in the Black,

A sight ahead for Lavender,

And with Peach, just a crack

Against that scarce atmosphere.

It’s a dismissal to the White,

With acceptance of desire,

Because Coral can be bright,

Making the purist a liar.

A new joy for friendship,

No more need for neediness.

Let the Pink and Yellow whip

The Red to its new address.

The Blue rose remains unique,

An imagined fantasy at best,

A hopeful beacon to the meek,

Who seek their inner treasure chest.

Why I chose that tattoo,

Over words, hearts, or streams

Because I need a push or two

To pursue my deepest dreams.

Lonely and obsessive,

I seek "life" with no restraint.

But like a rose, I’m expressive,

I’d die without complaint.

All that work, just to bloom,

To feel a hand and then be picked,

Us creatives await the doom

‘Cause death from love is too perfect.

*Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this poem, please share the link, like it, or leave a tip. There's more of me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter too.