Our lids hold the g r a v i t y  
        Of sleepless generations

Big man, I warn you-
Do not blink.

Poppies grown rosy,
from my comrades souls.
Stained red with their own murderous goals.

Their life force ****** dry, and now it flows,
Into the soil through the meadows.

Crowns of lead bullets adorn many a 'hero's' head.
Many a crying widow and widower longing for the dead.

Young daughters and sons who stand on their fallen's bed.
This is where the everlasting hate is spread.

Not all flowers have thorns
but roses do

roses are special, they are beautiful
just to the likes of you

so many flowers are pretty
but nothing compares
to the aesthetic of roses

and that's why they are aware.

their thorns protect them
they are born to fight

but they keep us silent,
cut our voices
they make us die

some people don't like roses
or don't like their thorns
they'll cut off their leaves
because they aren't thorns
and they'll cut down the thorns because nothing should be in the way

of their love

or so they say

when they cut our thorns
they are so proud
but do they know they take the rain out of clouds?

they break the spell,
they obstruct the beauty
sometimes they go ahead and just shoot me

I wonder, I wonder
oh dear rose of mine
why you die, oh you die
without your thorns sublime

not all flowers are roses
but none wishes to be
for the life of a rose

is as miserable as torture makes us be