I am posting this because somebody's poem was labeled creepy and I thought I have a much creepier and better poem. A classmate called my house because they were concerned about what I had written here. My teacher thought the metaphor was great and sh really liked it so who knows... maybe I am looney maybe not.
PAINTING THE ROSES RED
I dip the white roses
into the pond of your blood.
Three eyes,
two of them black, blank, and broken
observe me with a lifeless gaze.
The third, nothing,
just a deep blood-caked chasm
where, at the end, a small beacon
of kitchen light shoots through.
I sway and swirl
the white roses
around and around
in the sticky thick syrup.
I am careful not to tangle them
in your peppermint-fresh hair
spiraling behind you like the tail of a comet.
The thick white towel
taut around your breasts
soaks up your life.
I see your mouth open
so slight, musing,
the last half
of your last breath
evaporating off your lips.
The roses redden
like my affection for you.
A thick crimson paint, your blood
contorts the curves of the pristine petals.
The roses have become heavy and hard to hold.
I stand them on their stems
in a crystal vase.
Red drops plummet from each petal
and I listen to each drop
rap
on the kitchen counter.
They unravel to form a pattern
of broken hearts.
At this angle through the glass
you are so beautiful.
Picasso beautiful,
Monet beautiful,
your face etched in red;
an impressionistic image of you
mixed with slender jade stems,
terra cotta tiles,
and the limp ivory light
of the kitchen stove.
Bear 2009
PAINTING THE ROSES RED
I dip the white roses
into the pond of your blood.
Three eyes,
two of them black, blank, and broken
observe me with a lifeless gaze.
The third, nothing,
just a deep blood-caked chasm
where, at the end, a small beacon
of kitchen light shoots through.
I sway and swirl
the white roses
around and around
in the sticky thick syrup.
I am careful not to tangle them
in your peppermint-fresh hair
spiraling behind you like the tail of a comet.
The thick white towel
taut around your breasts
soaks up your life.
I see your mouth open
so slight, musing,
the last half
of your last breath
evaporating off your lips.
The roses redden
like my affection for you.
A thick crimson paint, your blood
contorts the curves of the pristine petals.
The roses have become heavy and hard to hold.
I stand them on their stems
in a crystal vase.
Red drops plummet from each petal
and I listen to each drop
rap
on the kitchen counter.
They unravel to form a pattern
of broken hearts.
At this angle through the glass
you are so beautiful.
Picasso beautiful,
Monet beautiful,
your face etched in red;
an impressionistic image of you
mixed with slender jade stems,
terra cotta tiles,
and the limp ivory light
of the kitchen stove.
Bear 2009