Black Roses

Swords and pens are relatable -

One cuts physically, 

One cuts emotionally, 

Either ways they have 

A habit of cutting apart. 

But one of which can also 

Keep you a part - or a whole. 

I'm willing to choose it wisely. 

Writer in me bleeds on paper overnight, 

When memories of you flow forthright. 

I try to bring those on paper 

But it seems ostensible. 

Wonder why it seems so insatiable? 

Even when I try writing a verse, 

It sounds as rude as a terse. 

Never happens when I freelance. 

Still, trying to give it a chance. 

Tomorrow is your birthday 

I thought it was last Sunday. 

I know that this letter too

Shall be shelved, like every year. So, 

This time, it'll be anonymously black. 

This time, I'm sending these black roses, 

Keep me connected to you 

At least as a stranger.