The garden has many a flower,
Yet I chose the rose.
The blood-red beauty lures everyone in, lest they get pricked by the thorns.
"the rose is sharp," the voices whisper to me.
but they aren't blinded by the rose's beauty.
I might just try to pick the rose, lest the thorns decide to prick me.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry about what i think to be true
PoetryThese SUCK they're my old vents from middleschool lolz don't take em seriously. I'm still updating semifequently but most of these are from 8th grade when I made strange decisions
