• i stare at the blank page in front of me
    trying to imagine the words that have yet to be written
    my hand sitting still with a pen ready to create
    absent mindedly a rose begins to grow,
    the petals of the flower,
    so delicate and sweet,
    the stem winding down to a sharp black tip,
    the thorns taking shape,
    daring to be touched,
    so engrossed in my sketch-
    it seems to be real,
    then as i begin to shade the petals black,
    the bell rings, i close my binder haphazardly-
    and as i hurry out the door my drawing slips-
    the rose dances and twirls to the ground below,
    and the beauty and time is left behind,
    and the worthless paper is picked up by the wisest of hands,
    and is brought to life once again.
    a simple sketch can tell you so much about someone,
    the rose was me.