Life a rose with crimson petals.
This is me, this is who i am,
And this is how i will be.
My fashion is derived from a passion,
A passion for that crimson flower.
Slits and cuts on a wrist will heal,
While harsh words to a child will eventualy kill.
They will kill the soul and the fashion,
As well as the flower and its passion.
Leaving a symbol, a false hope for a lost cause,
A bliss that instills ignorance.
And then we will no longer walk this place with indifference.
We shall smell that rose before it is slit away,
As for the vase the rose shall fill.
The pain and suffering of mortality,
The thorn shall instill.
Yet while your life force is spilt in crimson,
You will find that you shall live now and always.
Even after the color fades from your petals.

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