Thorns In Blue Roses

My pretty damsel, my dear she said with her alluring lips in a tease, with a playful tug on my heartstrings she wanted a poem about herself to entice my thoughts, to intrigue her complexities to save her from the mundane wolves she of all people fall under their spell like she has me under hers She wanted a poem but shook with slight discomfort as I bore my soul into a masterpiece for her namesake; another romantic component to put in her already established collection always exclaiming she doesn't deserve me when it is I that doesn't deserve her In all honest opinion, what I wrote for her was only one side of the spectrum the spectrum that submits to her majesty that wishes to constantly see a smile upon her lips a beautiful contortion of all she loves and knows to be real of me the part that loves her more than I care to lead on while I hold back truth she can't possibly stomach I silently despise her, I silently crave her attention pardon me while I quote Ponytail Parades by Emery for it does scare me to think that she could find takers other than me, better than me everytime we speak, her head is elsewhere and I speak enough for both of us so in desperate attempt I try to keep the conversation engaging to keep from enraging yet she only permits 5 minutes of her time then like wind in the night she's off enjoying her next sight What most would describe my situation is love misdirection that I should pack my metaphorical bags and move on yet you just don't get it I don't feed her compliments like a baby in a high chair I don't cling to her for mere obsession I, a robotic puppy, don't sit around waiting for her orders waiting for her 5 minute return to me She, in my eyes, is everything in a woman I could ask for from her opinionated thoughts and demeanor to what makes her laugh, her social anxieties and excellencies she's perfect in many ways but apparently from her star-studded kingdom I'm irrelevant when three years prior I was the name upon her lips the hand to grace hers I was hers well at least so I thought so the only story I can have myself believe I can't make heads or tails of my tangled heroine Why do I call her mine yes she's apart of my life, my thoughts, my dreams but she's a separate entity and I can't control a separate person though in contrast, her captivating eyes find ways to control me She's my Pink and Discomfort a bed of thorns in blue roses but it's not my fault..we love who we love right or is it me who loves who can only destroy