The Rose

[Here's a poem that me and David Loti matched up with The Rose by Bette Midler. It's a poem-song.]

Some say love, it is a river

That drowns the tender reed

Some say love, it is a razor

That leaves your soul to bleed

Some say love, it is a hunger

An endless aching need

I say love, it is a flower

And you, its only seed

I say love is five kicks to the junk

a sugar-high, and a hangover.

It makes you feel all sorts of things

all at the same time:

leaves you unsure

whether you’re laughing or sobbing;

your heart is smiling

while your colon is feeling pensive

and your liver can’t shake

an overwhelming sense of impending doom.

Love makes you want to listen

to a strange medley of ACDC,

Hank Williams, and Marvin Gaye.

It’s the most beautiful thing in the world

that makes you puke every time you see it.

Love gives you intense vertigo

then forces you to free-climb mountains.

It's the heart, afraid of breaking

That never learns to dance

It's the dream, afraid of waking

That never takes the chance

It's the one who won't be taken

Who cannot seem to give

And the soul, afraid of dying

That never learns to live

I have no idea how love

enjoys such a great reputation.

It is a porcupine fetus

you give birth to

every time they brush up next to you

or laugh at your jokes.

It makes you want to punch Bette Midler

square in the face

even as you nod in complete agreement

to the sappy lyrics of song

you know you’re supposed to hate .

It’s a peaceful-easy-feeling

that pushes a Rototiller

straight through your guts.

It’s a railroad tunnel

painted on the side of a cliff

that you believe every damn time.

When the night has been too lonely

And the road has been too long

And you think that love is only

For the lucky and the strong

Just remember in the winter

Far beneath the bitter snow

Lies the seed

That with the sun's love,

In the spring

Becomes the rose

They say

when skiers get caught-up in an avalanche

their brains get knocked around,

so that when they finally stop

they can’t tell which way is up.

When they start digging

they’re just as likely

to go down as up. . .

Love is like that

except warm and nice smelling.

Love may be a flower,

but it’s not a kindly one.

It’s one of those spikey-asshole flowers

that everyone seems adore

despite it’s proclivity

for dolling out scrapes,

cuts, and other stinging injuries.