That rose,
Being clipped off her mother's stems of joy,
Into the cruel world of red,
Red like blood,
Her thorns grew,
She grew defensive,
She started fading,
From all the stress,
Of growing into the opposite of what-
She was supposed to be,
And she withered,
She was thrown away,
Like if she was trash,
Which was not true,
But she thought it was right,
Because she deserved it,
She said.
And she was replaced,
Her petals fell down her face,
Until she was empty,
And had nothing to give,
And she rotted,
Grew tired,
And hurt everyone who tried to help,
She died,
And nobody cried,
For they did not care,
And never noticed,
Because they simply thought,
That she was not needed,
In their lives,
But truly,
Even one crying rose,
Is needed to be known.
YOU ARE READING
I'm Starting To Think...
Poetry...that everything can come together. It can tell us what we are. It can tell us what the meaning of everything is... If you just smile, You'll see the whole world. Now just smile. {Warning: Old. Bad. Old+Bad= Very bad.}
