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.