She was born a rose,
With deep red cheeks and hair blonde as gold,
Companied by a smile so kind, it was said to heal your soul.
And this "rose" was held delicately in the hearts of those who met her,
As she was just a young girl, with a heart made of gold,
But this "rose" had thorns to protect her sweet heart,
Only to be picked, and used, and thrown, and stomped,
By the world who didn't care about her or her thoughts,
By a world that kept spinning, when she was hurting and lost,
So that "rose" used her thorns to keep people away,
And finally, finally, got things to go her way,
Till one day she was picked,
When a "bee" landed on her petal,
So she shook and fought and punched and kicked,
But that "bee" didn't sting her, at least not right away,
Instead he stuck around, day after day,
Till one day he got tired of that "rose,"
And she had thought things were going okay,
And then he left.
And she was back to square one.
Her thorns had grown dull and her petals had holes,
And she again, picked herself up,
Ready for the next one.
Until the last petal fell.