Pink poinsettia petals
Are really just leaves
What makes them so rosy
Or the red ones bleed
I think they are quite like me
All year round my mother
Grows them in our house
Most days they must stay inside
I do the same, in here I hide
Leaves green, on occasion wilting
My smile white, I'm always faking
Potted plant, forced to grow
On one, set path chosen for it
By my mother like she does for me
Pink poinsettia petals
Are really just leaves
What makes them so rosy
Or the red ones bleed
I like the stanza that I repeated, it's from the original version I wrote, I lost the rest though. I tried to re-write it but... I'm not pleased in the slightest.
