Rose

Some say when I was born, I looked just like a rose. With a twinkle in my eyes from deep with in, my heart it glows. But, everybody knows, a rose is born with, blood stained color, and is so sensitive to grow. Just one freeze or bump, it shrivels and hides from, Nature, and all nature can throw. When picked, if not careful, its thorns, can prick. And the rose cry's, and withers more. Carrying the stains she bore. Everyone knows each autumn, A rose can't survive the winters call. So she must be gently tucked in and wrapped in blankets. If she were to survive at all. But, sometimes she wonders if by spring, all her petals will fall.. Sometimes she wishes she wouldn't make the spring, to blossom..For it's forest, ball. Sometimes she thinks she won't survive, if one more storm, picks up and does brawl.