Rose

Just another broken rose,

Laying dead on the streets,

Stopmed out and left without color,

Only to be continuously trampled on by passerby.

 

This now damaged, lifeless rose was once natures pride and joy,

Stunningly beautiful and strikingly white,

With thorns that were sharper than a knife.

 

Those thorns eventually dulled out,

And the white faded to black,

From the filthy street water.

This poem is about: 
Me

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