Roses,
Just like those roses,
Those red blooming ones,
Its petals so soft,
So weak,
It fell over and over again but always got replaced by new ones.

Roses,
Always admired,
Because no one,
No one looks at it's thorns,
Only its flowers.

So you pick it,
Why wouldn't one pick something so exquisite you ask?

You want it- all for yourself,
Yank it away from its loved ones,
In return it pierces gravely through your rather thick skin.

You throw it,
You step on it like it's of no worth,
But you never thought did you?
Not once that,
Maybe just maybe if you hadn't picked it,
If you hadn't hurt it,
It would never,
Never have hurt you.

But no,
Instead you told yourself,
'If not the rose there's always gonna be another flower I can pick'.

-It took me an entire, lifetime to realise,
I was just one of those- beautiful roses.