A rose knows nothing but beauty and pain. She grows thorns to keep people from picking her. Trying to fend off foreign things from killing her. Yet it's funny that no matter how many thorns she grows...people manage to snap her off. Her thorns are pciked off and tossed away. She lays open to the pain life will enduce upon her.
They pick, each petal, slowly. Killing her. One by one her beauty is torn away. To her everything is done with such precision and she feels it slowly taking affect.
All she ever wanted was to bloom for someone completely. But these people keep plucking her petals. Hoping to find out, "Does she love me. Does she love me not." How will they ever truly see her for the gorgeous creation she is if they never gave her the chanc to bloom? She wants to scream out. But what voice do roses have in a patch of ignorance and blind eyes. They just keep destroying her.
One day you'll find that rose. Bare. A stem thrown, tossed away, in a bed of petals. Once her pride and joy. Now her grave.
You. You'll be to blame.

06/03/2006