Rose- A Poem

A piece of art I did myself
A piece of art I did myself | Source


Twisting vines share my fate

Thorns that pierce the very soul

To be loved and to hate

Seems to be my role.

Blood drips from freshly made wounds

And scars mark the old.

My cries fill the air with tunes

And my heart is frozen cold.

I am the stem of a rose

The part covered in thorns

Never truly noticed before

The heart fully torn.

But I am what makes the beauty stand

The flower depends on e.

Thus I am important, I am

Though I'll never be free

I play my role in this life

And the one there after

Such is the pain, the strife

Of responsibility,

Of being me.

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