I handed you a budding rose,
But you crushed it under foot.
I took the rose and planted it,
And waited till it took root.
I watered it, I tended it,
And waited till it grew.
But this plant meant nothing,
It was a joy you never knew.
So the plant withered,
And subsequently died.
I looked upon my labour,
My heart ached as I cried,
You took my rose for granted,
And until it wasn't there.
You failed to realise the friendship,
Which I tried so hard to share
YOU ARE READING
Scribbles Of Poetry (Book One)
PoetryJust a random assortment of words and sentences compiled into a sort of book. These don't follow any particular theme or story.
