My condition is turning fatal,
Petal after petal.
Iron-like smell,
There's a pain I can no longer tell.
Butterflies in my stomach,
Flowers on my lungs.
Roses everytime I cough,
A disease I don't know if will stop.
Prickly thorns embraced my body,
I struggled to breathe.
Feeling such agony,
I'll be five feet underneath.
Perhaps I'm dying,
I'll lay on a crimson garden.
Fields on nightshade,
I met my doom.
Unrequited love,
A feeling that will never bloom.
I'll gladly throw up flowers for you,
I hope it won't happen to you.
