Burns was wrong

Love isn't a blossoming rose,

It's a fake one

Give it water and soil,

It still stays the same

Never blooming, never wilting

The thorns still blood thirsty,

But never fade

You hold it in your palm,

Pretending that it's real

That you are special

You are just drawing blood

Dripping down your hand

As you hold the rose tighter

Not letting go of the thing that

Hurts you the most

Others around you do the same,

Trying to believe they have a reason

To live

The lucky ones

Have real, beautiful roses

They throw them away like they're

Nothing

People scramble to pick them up,

But the rose is dead

And nothing more

Nothing more than a scrap of garbage

Left in the rain

Stepped on, drowned, mutilated.

Even fake roses have it better.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Also, as you might notice, most of my poems are about death or suicide. I do NOT support killing yourself. If you feel as though you might hurt yourself, please contact a professional. You are loved. Thank you.