Andrew Rose Poems

Love is a disastrous ideal,
Something to constantly fall short off,
To hinder all progression to normality,
Love hurts and that’s the truth.
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I made a collection of things of yours
From the four corners of my room,
All thoughts concealed within my heart,
Bringing back memories with every glance…
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Isn’t it strange how some things stay in your memory forever,
And weird how things scar your heart?

Can both can be lost in time?
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I’m numb,
In the humidity of the day I’m cold,
Disappeared thoughts of loneliness reappear in force,
A crushing blow,
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Where is this?
A dark space of nothing.
Who knows how long this is?
Without measure?
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When people feel depressed
sometimes they get suicidal,
Clinging onto the ledges of emotion
by their finger tips,
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Those floating pockets of moisture,
Surprisingly deep and grey,
Make for a cloudy day,
Whose base is a dreary reminder,
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How quickly the time passes up here,
At one moment the sun,
In all its glory,
The next the moon is displayed,
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Isolated;

Like the grain of sand-
at the centre of a pearl.
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Realisation can be a terrible occurrence,
I don’t think it’s supposed to work any other way.
Tonight was one of those occasions…
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