Burns was wrong

Love isn’t a blossoming rose,

It’s a fake one

Give it water and soil,

It still stays the same

Never blooming, never wilting

The thorns are still blood thirsty,

But they never fade

You hold it in your hand,

Pretending that it’s real

That you are special

You are just drawing blood

Dripping down your hand

As you hold the rose tighter

Not letting go of the thing that

Hurts you the most

Others around you do the same,

Trying to believe they have a reason

To go on

The lucky ones who got to the store first

Have real, beautiful roses

They throw them away like they’re

Nothing

People scramble to pick them up,

But the rose is dead

And nothing more

Nothing more than a scrap of garbage

Left in the rain

Stepped on, drowned, mutilated.

Even fake roses have it better.