Pink poinsettia petals Are really just leaves What makes them so rosy Or the red ones bleed
I think they are quite like me All year round my mother Grows them in our house Most days they must stay inside I do the same, in here I hide
Leaves green, on occasion wilting My smile white, I'm always faking Potted plant, forced to grow On one, set path chosen for it By my mother like she does for me
Pink poinsettia petals Are really just leaves What makes them so rosy Or the red ones bleed
I like the stanza that I repeated, it's from the original version I wrote, I lost the rest though. I tried to re-write it but... I'm not pleased in the slightest.