The Rose

I love the rose .

I love it's thorns .

I love my skin ,

When it is torn .

The pedals fall ,

And lose their breath ,

Affliction swarms ,

I feel it's death .

As apathy ,

Falls down on me ,

I do not care ,

I wish to see...

The pedals crumble,

Right to the ground ,

They lay in rest ,

Safe and sound .

But the thorns live on ,

They live on,

Representation of hatered ,

Image of anger ,

They live on ,

We are in danger .

Our happiness ,

Will always die ,

But not our dejection ,

That lives inside .

Our sorrow is ,

What is released ,

When we're buried ,

6 feet deep .

Our saturnine ,

Will never go ,

Just like the thorn ,

On a rose .

But the thorns live on ,

They live on,

Representation of hatered ,

Image of anger ,

They live on ,

We are in danger .

So this is why,

I love the rose ,

Because beauty dies ,

And joy will go ,

But like the thorn ,

Sorrow endures ,

And it's pain ,

Oh so pure .

I love the rose ,

When pedals culminate ,

Because the thorns ,

They feed me hate .

But the thorns live on ,

They live on,

Representation of hatered ,

Image of anger ,

They live on ,

We are in danger .