I won’t fight in your war,
I’m too busy fighting in my own.
You make sacrifices
That aren’t yours to make,
A heavy bill you don’t foot.  
there are white roses that have grown
In a field you turned into a battle ground,
They are red now,
Stained by blood that is not your own.
And it drips onto the grass,
Into the soil,
and from the soil,
Into me.
Into all of us.
Into you, but you don’t know that.
I’ve been growing white roses lately,
That’s my war.
And they grow towards the sky,
Despite the fact they sprout
From the rubble you’ve left behind.
And unlike you I don’t pick their petals.
Their thorns don’t scare me because
They belong to them, not me.
They don’t mean to harm you,
They are just protecting themselves from you.
Though certainly
You have been harmed by others.  
A bullet.
A bomb.
A bombardment.
A breath of fire.
A bulletin board of things
That don’t need to happen.
I come to find it’s better
not to point the finger at white roses
Or their thorns.
Or myself.
This one falls on you.
So no,
I won’t fight in your war,
I’m too busy.
I’m just way too ******* busy,
Fighting my own.