I was a fine red rose with roots not so deep and thorns not so sharp,
built of store-bought seeds
and the water that the hose would feed.
I was not tendered and I was delicate.
When winter would come,
I would freeze for all that I lacked,
And I would become a withering rose.
For all I had grown to be,
my gardener was at fault.
He planted a white rose,
fine and sweet, as white as snow,
he learnt from me,
and white rose was built of the finest of seeds and the purest of water,
I was a mistake that was amended after the torture.
I watched at my withering state, as I was going to be no more,
the weight of uselessness was as heavy as the roots that would pull me down.
although you have learnt,
A better treatment and you wouldn’t lose me,
but gardener oh gardener,
your false belief pulls you down,
that once I’m broken, I’m never worth fixing again.
So I watch as I die,
I watch as she grows.
Eyes filled with envy, was once filled with hope.
Eyes that would bloom, drown in its tears.
And everyone thought red roses were special every year.
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An Amateur writer who's in love with anything that involves escaping reality. A daydreamer and a Quora addict when it's day, and an eccedentestiast when it's dark.