My touch is cold…
But I have a core…
I sense the cold all around me…
But I don't feel it…
I can kill…
But I can't be killed…
I know the burning touch of death…
But I don't feel it…
People that see me say that I hold beauty…
But those who meet me never tell another story…
I have felt a pained heart full of hate…
But I never understood it…
I can kill…
But I can't be killed…
I have felt the grip of hatred and angst…
But I couldn't stop it…
I have seen the world through someone else's eyes…
But I can't see myself…
I am held somewhere warm…
But I am cold…
I can kill…
But I can't be killed…
I am a rose…
But I am not a flower…
I am a rose…
But I have no aroma…
I can kill…
But I can't be killed…
Fire can run through my veins…
But I can't be burnt…
I am a rose…
But I am not a flower…
I am a rose…
But I have no aroma…
I can kill…
But I can't be killed…
Yup! Here is a small poetry that is dedicated to...Bloody Rose! Yup! The pistol! I know it is nothing reall important but... In this one the Bloody Rose (gun) "talks" about...itself...
I hope you liked my idea! :) Please review!...