White rose, stained and torn by its own thorns
The beauty was only a ploy,
to,
get in real close with your second hand smoke
of death,
sin,
wine and the gin that we pour down our throats without thinking this could be the end,
now,
white rose, stained and torn by its own thorns
What was your plan besides faking a stand to the
last,
man,
I’ve ever met was ashamed by the mess that you care to dress as a
White rose, stained and torn by its own thorns
how,
could you expect to have something to miss when you steal every kiss
from their lips filled with poisonous wishes
dear sister dear dear sister you know its ok to come home I know
that it’s hard to see in the dark, but watch where you
step,
it,
could be a trap they set,
to,
hold you back down
so,
White rose, stained and torn by its own thorns
you’ll stay, and slowly wither away.