Black Rose/Black Heart
A Wild Irish Rose sprung from a man’s hand.
He stunk like a skunk and gave an evil grin.
His face was crude, His words were lewd
and deep down horror was all I could comprehend.
18 years of nothing was all I got.
I once got jealous seeing a girl kissing her Pop.
18 years of festering pain,
misfortune and distrust was all that I gain.
He told me one day…that I was his heart.
I wonder why after he had torn it apart?
Red roses bleed love so true,
a misrepresentation for all I knew.
My father carried a glass bouquet every day
and rot gut, diseased liver was all that he gain.
Whenever I find a man, I hate when my chest swell.
I always feel as if I’m walking into hell.
He says I’m pretty, he says I’m fine.
He says, “Baby, baby won’t you be mine?”
From what I know my daddy was that kind.
In lieu of wedding bliss and perfunctory discord,
I’ll say my vows and swallow every word.
Than we’ll have kids someday,
my only fear is him carrying the bouquet.
Quite naturally, his could be homegrown,
then again, I might be carrying my own.
L. M. Stephens