i'm telling you.
the clouds were meant for the ground.
but they hung themselves.

The thorn of the blue roses seems so red,
Bloated carcasses finding their way out,
The scars..can't you see it? it's still red

Happy, sometimes is one in a million,
Billion people, gazillion emotions
Pain could be an angel, Pain could be a python

The gardener tends to his plants with love and devotion
From the daisies to the tulips and the hydrangeas in rows
But one flower he gives the most attention,
Was the beautiful, blood red, prickly rose

Every day the gardener cared for the flower,
Savoring the sight with his eyes and the scent with the nose
Yet when he goes to touch it, however,
It's thorns would cut him and from the wound, blood rose

Sometimes to himself, he wondered
Why something he loved so much
Would oppose him so violently
And deny his touch

Even as he asked himself, he knew the flower didn't know why
But he knew he had chose
He would always love, till the day he'd die
His beautiful, blood red, prickly rose

if i were the sun,
i’d paint you the warmest dawn
in hopes that you will feel
my amber embrace
yesterday—nothing but a trace

if i were a song,
i’d wish to taste your lips
settle on your tongue
keep you humming, dancing
by my side, swaying

if i were the moon,
i’d guard you as you sleep
an angel for an angel
a goddess watching her god
the clouds—they watch, fond

if i were me,
and you were you,
i’d want nothing else
but your hand safe in mine
as the stars fall in line