I Was Not Made of Rose

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A description about myself, and viewpoint about life and writing.

Submitted: July 19, 2019

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Submitted: July 19, 2019

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I Was Not Made of Rose

 
I floated in a forest like a ghost
for reasons I did not even know,
I just wanna taste how a ghost felt.
 
Some say my brain was made of rose,
that saw nothing of black or dark
only fancy pink or fake spark.  
 
I thought it was not true, 
so I would like to show you  
I was not made of rose. 
I had seen dark and been black, and
it was easy to conjure 
one's own Reaper and indulge:
I strangled myself in past sad pictures
till my heart torn;
I wallowed in present social threats
till my hope worn;
I inscribed myself with passive adjectives
till my confidence drown.
I was very damned sure that as a ghost 
I should not have my happiness grown.
 
In a forest I roamed like a ghost.
I dropped with waterfall and yelled,
I evaporated into mist and wept,
I gilded at the bottom of valley and growled.
Like bacteria, like a ghost.
 
This dead valley had become my home,
just one inch apart from hell. 
Soon I could not even roam but crawl.
Finally I lay myself down, 
washed my face with moss, 
listened to the calling from the hell. 
I was scared and mad,
I forced myself to eat crow.
 
'Cause I saw myself become the darkest spark
exhaled my most sorrowful puff
proved the world that I was a ghost 
of the most pathetic and stupid slough.
 
I told myself I had to learn  
whistle like winds,
shrill like crickets, 
sing like sky larks, and
roar like grizzly bears.
 
One by one, bit by bit, 
I sewed myself up with leaves,
glued myself with dews,
stuffed myself with earth.
I had myself again and agian
crawled, roamed, and floated.
 
I was born with one leg, and
I managed to live through a false limb.
I told myself no matter how many legs we have
we still need to walk well. 
If one leg slips, compose it into your steps
and make it your dance. 
 
I was not made of rose,
but why couldn’t I make my life a rose?
When someone crashed me, 
why should I also conceal my smell
and myself stink and foul?
 
Why should I spend time to moan and growl,
paint or pen my life of stories 
with only blackish spark?
 
There had been plenty of 
piteous beauties and ugly esthetics
in the field of arts and writings.
If there is a rose, or roses, timidly grow,
please don’t try to crash her.
If you do, she still hopes she can
leave your shoes with her rosy smell.
 
I was not made of rose. 
But I don’t have to live like a ghost.
And I thank all who had ever stopped by and smelled.
If you gonna crash, that is Okay. 
I still wanna tell you 
even you feel you are in mud
life still can be like a rose,
if you are willing to make it so. 


© Copyright 2019 Derina Penn. All rights reserved.

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