I paint the roses with my sorrow
Those may see and not feel
Once, twice, thrice goes my brush as I paint the roses
You may see my plastered grin and be fooled
But only my roses know the truth
This poem may seem meaningless
Or the reader may see past
Perhaps my roses are not alone
As the petals fall
My roses are not the only things breaking
Joined at the hip
My roses weep, so frail
I now know
Why roses are red