Roses are red, violets are blue,
But so are the remnants of a torn away heart
So is my blood, close to suffocation
Even so is the ink that paints bleeding parchment
And likewise the eyes that sobbed separation.
Love is what feels, and love is what feels not
Pain is what burns, yet still not that kills most
Joy is what clowns, and laughter that reels off
Sorrow which cried, but still not that sobs most
Pain which thrives, scares are what calms most
Success that reprieves, and regret that fills most
So that which is not is, and is just ain't not.
Honey is sweet, and so are you.
Yet so are hopes that raises most shame
And so is the evil that brings most fame
Even so is the heart that gives the most pain
And so is a life that's aimed at no gain.
Life is what is, and life is what is not.
Which comforts one, austerity thrown another
Which pleases one, still disgruntles another
And that which saves one destroys another
Such is the mystery, the mystery that drives most
That what we see is, and what we don't still is
What we feel might be, and might be we feel not
And so which is is not, and is not still ain't not.
