I'm well known for being blunt sometimes,
and for using metaphors in my work,
but I couldn't decide between the two, for a poem, about, myself.
This is personal and private.
It contains a fear of the day,
My blood spills in a new way,
And I, become,
Completely vulnerable.
Is it true that a rose is only beautiful once?
When you pick it, it begins to wilt and die, and decay.
Will I end up with the same fate?
Oh, is it fair for me to be so vulnerable?
The thought terrifies me,
and is much to bear,
But one day I will live it.
I'm afraid of watching the light fade from my eyes.
Becoming a different person.
Becoming dependent.
Looking from the wrong perspective,
Or becoming addicted to the fingers that pick me.
I have thorns that stop me from getting picked,
And it takes a lot of pain to wrap your delicate fingers,
Around my sharpened swords of thorns.
And chances are, you'll get hurt,
Because I'm a rose afraid of being picked.
I am a rose terrified of being stepped on.
