Category: Writers Block
Rosie, she is a flower.
In her beauty have they built their tower.
Rosie, she is a rose,
A growing bud sans rich soil to grow.
Rags and tatters upon her skin,
But no bandages to mend the soul within.
Men have whipped and lashed her down,
Till blood has stained her shabby gown.
Rosie, a child in bloom,
Who walks alone through a world of gloom.
Rosie, an infant growing too fast.
No time to enjoy the childhood passed.
In shoes that barely cover her feet,
She solemnly walks the soulless street.
Her flesh is sold for another's gain,
No bless'd temple, she's sanctity profaned.
Rosie, the harlot by fate,
Sadly picks at the refuse on her plate.
Endless tears flow down to stain her dress,
And form a dagger above her breast.
She lays her head upon a bench to sleep,
And in her dreams: happiness to keep.
But no solace for Rosie in the lonely night,
For she knows the terrors of the coming bright.
Rosie, oh Rosie sweet,
Wishes, just once, for a bed made neat.
If she could but run away from her life,
To hide away from her sorrow and strife.
She turns 21, with no celebration there.
She's now an adult, but no one cares.
For Rosie is just a shadow there,
Until 25 dollars is her fare.
Rosie, oh Rosie love,
Beneath your tears there lies a dove.
Beneath the sorrow, an angel tries,
To flutter forth from the tears you cry.
Now 25, a woman by rights,
She knows nothing but the corners and street lights.
One sad soul forgotten by all,
Accept for those who answer her master's call.
Rosie, a flower dying,
With no river for her endless crying,
Kneels down sadly beside her street,
With blade in hand to admit defeat.
"This is me. Meet me, sword,
And give me heed for my last words.
Lend an ear, lend some time,
Even as I have given all of mine:
No more tears, no more fees,
No longer will they come looking for me.
No longer the shadow awaiting the dark,
No longer a flame without lighting spark.
Twenty-five has come and gone, my blade,
And not once have I found that peaceful glade.
Twenty-five thousand miles have these faded sales flown,
And not once -- joy -- have they known.
But now, whether or not the world agrees,
Happiness at last shall I achieve.
One quick thrust, oh trusty sword,
Now forth go you, and end these words."
Rosie, oh my flower waning,
With your dress torn asunder and the blood their staining:
Let me cry my tears for you oh Rose,
And close your eyes in sweet repose.
I know your name, my flower gone.
I know your words, I sing your song.
I feel you still, and hold you near,
My shirt damp with the traces of your tears.
Rosie, rest well my flower dead.
May heaven give you your restful bed.
Then lay your head down, and nightmares away,
Replaced by beauty and love to forever stay...
*feels like crying*