Let yourself burn, let yourself be
Eaten away by the darkness you once preyed on,
Till all that's left is a puddle of wax (tears) on the plate (bed).

It's better to give out rather than to give in,
To cry and rage and scream and after that to lie exhausted.

Bloom like the rose after, coat in red and thorns sharper,
Unrelenting but its beauty brings comfort to eyes of lovers,
Rush not the pain of burning and blooming. Feel.
Not because you're weak but because you are stronger after.

Withered flowers reminds us that
Withering is fine.
Waters --in any shape they are--
Will bring the colors of us again.