They Call Me The Wild Black Rose
Unkept and left unmaintained but still not free,
Untouched, unloved and left to be.
No one stops a moment, not even to stare,
They walk past no worry, not one silent glare.
I lay in a droop, withered and wrong,
Unwanted, uncared for and left too long.
Too much sorrow too much hurt and pain,
Darkness surrounding like a spreading stain.
I have thorns like knives that cut and prick,
A stem to shielded, not strong but thick.
My petals fall soft like tears that cry,
A bud that stays closed off and shy.
I am the colour of cold and hate,
Unhopeful and unknown is my fate.
Wilting and broken, in angst I am froze,
They call me the wild black rose.