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: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741