I spend my days painting roses.
Their pink tinted tips.
The warmth of their flowering buds.
The alluring sound of brush on petals and petals on flesh.
Caressing their soft, smooth innocence.
It feels as though i awaken them from their soft, sacred, slumber.
Opening their buds of tepid humidity.
To seize that which will make them grow.
Just a subtle touch. A simple sensation.
My fingers rubbing along the blushing interior.
They excrete the symbolism of our unity.
I love to divulge in the excruciating exertion of physical awareness.
The awareness of the tender beauty we all paint with our brushes.
A calming state of being.
That wondrous blush of pink tinted color on their tips.
On their flower's lips.
The distribution of the crimson kind.
The intensity of that overwhelming pigment.
Flowing, caressing, glowing, touching.
My ultimate vision.
A blushing rose.
The thorny exterior.
Pricking the tips of my guilty fingers.
My perception of an exceptional color.
This vision i have of those tinted roses.
Awakened, blushing, alive, burning.
The emotions i experience with every stroke of my hand.
Even more alarming than the last.
The boiling emotion spilling over onto the flesh.
Scraping over canvas and rose petal skin.
That one touch of that single brush brings the intensity of crimson to the surface.
I like to spend my days...painting roses.
this poem is about my appreciation for girls, women and all females. and the strength we all gain through loving and losing.