I'm the thorn between the roses
The outcast
But I love the misfits
The thorns
But they think that were the roses
Black roses
And they're the thorns
We are a black rose society
And the black roses sing into my mind
And my soul shivers at the beautiful rhythm
As it penetrates my heart
And sends goosebumps through out my long arms
The same arms that I pick the roses with
But I cant keep them because they are a sweet reminder
That even the prettiest things are always dark
And that eventually we all wither away and die
Weather it be slow and painful
Or quick and painless
Deaths long, bony fingers
Finds his way around everybody's sorry neck in the end
Black roses like black things
They are attracted to dark people
And our own dark monstrous souls,
We are monsters weather we choose it or not
We are all capable of seeing the truth
Some just cover their eyes
But I sense the sickness inside of people
When they can't even see it themselves
I will not be blinded by what people want me to see
They lie to us by painting the roses a bright and cheerful color
But if you wipe away the paint
We're all a black rose.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 7:08 AM UTC
I'm the thorn between the roses
The outcast
But I love the misfits
The thorns
But they think that were the roses
Black roses
And they're the thorns
We are a black rose society
And the black roses sing into my mind
And my soul shivers at the beautiful rhythm
As it penetrates my heart
And sends goosebumps through out my long arms
The same arms that I pick the roses with
But I cant keep them because they are a sweet reminder
That even the prettiest things are always dark
And that eventually we all wither away and die
Weather it be slow and painful
Or quick and painless
Deaths long, bony fingers
Finds his way around everybody's sorry neck in the end
Black roses like black things
They are attracted to dark people
And our own dark monstrous souls,
We are monsters weather we choose it or not
We are all capable of seeing the truth
Some just cover their eyes
But I sense the sickness inside of people
When they can't even see it themselves
I will not be blinded by what people want me to see
They lie to us by painting the roses a bright and cheerful color
But if you wipe away the paint
We're all a black rose.
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