Bed of thorns, vacant flowerbeds,
Flowers plucked and torn, your loyalties shed.
Flower crown of spikes, flower crown of thorns,
Wicked wicker-weaved words swarm.
I'm selling secrets a dozen a bundle
Leaves fall, flowers die.
Your crown of thorns, a holy high.
Crown of thorns, harsh against the skin,
"Because I love you," scratches, digs and festers again.
A pillow of secrets, your blanket of lies,
I don't cry.
Once so innocent, this flower child no more.
A warm welcome sore.
I'm selling crowns a dozen a bundle,
brown flowers wilt.
"I love you," you say.
But with your words you fumble.
Sharp Bouquets spark a blaze,
The flower child ignites,
can't meet her gaze.
Because I love me, we shouldn’t be a chore.
Roses are for love not for “sorry,”
At least not anymore.