The Hand of Rose.
Just something I conjured up this evening in around Half an Hour.
This poem belongs to me.
The Hand of Rose
Rose. Oh Rose.
Why do you never wish to hold my hand?
But whenever,
You see Heather. You want to hold his?
On what counts is my hand held responsible for?
The many gripping and ripping of weeds?
Why, why is it me that you scorn?
Is this my sentence for what I have done?
The embodiment of me torn with your thorns.
Rose, oh darling Rose.
Will you ever hold my hand?
And if ever you do, will you enjoy it?
Thankyou.
Two words... Adrian Mole
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