Rose Grown From Concrete

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    Rose Grown From Concrete

     The time was nearing as i dropped
    my head within a deep sigh,
    so sad forever weary but
    graciously teary as i cry.
    Inside my soul the aching pain
    takes a hold of me yet insane its
    never the notion or bold of me as
    it drifts my heart remains cold you see.

    This sadness isnt called upon, never by thee.
    rather from the iniquities its impurities
    has brought its wrath abundantly on me,
    whithered & battered like a dying old tree.
    So frail i just sit idly like a piece of stone,
    the shark bite of bewilderment slices thru my
    mind like shards of glass scraped on soft skin
    only the injuries blatantly attack my spirit, im so prone.

    Am i too easy going? Am i too vulnerable to shame?
    As astenine as it presents itself im the one to blame.
    Oblivious as i was to being dis-oriented to dumbfoundness
    its wrecklessly boundless to regret deciets to this game.
    Ultimately now my worries are gone & out of commission,
    lost the battle of being fooled now the war is my decision,
    I capitalized off the mistakes of being so decieved & irritive
    so as this severity has been realized im on a epitomized coated revision.................levitating............as a rose grown from concrete..

    By Michael Smith

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    Kingwebstar commented on Rose Grown From Concrete

    06-03-2012

    I love this poem to when I first read the title I thought of 2pac. He will always be my father figure cause I grew up without one .I turned out alright.Love the poem it is deep and you can tell it is from the heart
    Reply to Comment

    JadedJezzabel commented on Rose Grown From Concrete

    03-03-2011

    I LIKE THIS A LOT.....VERY SIMILAR TO THE POEM OF THE SAME NAME WRITTEN BY TUPAC....NOT THE SAME BUT SIMILAR.
    Reply to Comment

    winterkou commented on Rose Grown From Concrete

    02-03-2011

    You are excellent with your imagery and your flow is astounding. I enjoyed the read, look forward to more writes bro. winter
    Reply to Comment

    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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