Not all roses are red.
Though some be bright as light,
Some are black, and some are dead.
In all things, you can be ahead,
But then, you learn you are not right.
Not all roses are red.
The horse rears its mighty head.
The mark that's left, a sign of its might.
Some are black, and some are dead.
Some think of it and dread,
And they struggle to write
"Not all roses are red."
The red reminds us of the blood shed,
And though a red rose might bring delight,
Some are black, and some are dead.
Not all men can be lead
To understand what's right.
Not all roses are red.
Some are black, and some are dead.
Not all roses are red.
Though some be bright as light,
Some are bruised, and some are dead.
In all things, she is ahead,
Suddenly snatched from line of sight.
Not all roses are red.
The horse rears his mighty head.
Only a fool would test his might.
Some are bruised, and some are dead.
Some think of it and dread,
And they struggle to write,
"Not all roses are red."
The red reminds us of the blood shed,
Of those who put up a fight.
Some are bruised, and some are dead.
Not all men can be lead
To understand what's right.
Not all roses are red.
Some are bruised, and some are dead.
YOU ARE READING
Creative Writing
PoetryThis semester, I'm in a Creative Writing course, and I figured I'd publish some of the things I've written in it thus far. Some of them have very specific formats that are going to be tricky to write on a laptop, but I'm going to do my best.
