I never want to — be like a rose, here by morning, gone by evening. Have beautiful petals that don't last, that fade when the rain washes on them. I don't want to be pretty like a rose either. To sit on a thorny branch and be plucked, looked at and admired only to be plucked! Given to another as a sign of love, then thrown into the trash after it’s dried up. Pretty then useless immediately. I don't want to be red like it either, what if the red is not symbolizing passion but pain, danger? What if all this time while a rose sits on a thorny stem, its bleeding, a beautiful eye catching red and we call it pretty. When I touch a rose, I caress it assuming its pain, its beautiful fragrance, my finger tips graze its soft petals, a dew on them remains on my hands. It knows me and I know it back, we are the same, although I wish not to be like it. A thorny stem of life I sit on too, you and I rose, dewy drops sit on its petals, you and I both for the cause of love, easy pluck, here today unguaranteed tomorrow, we don't hold our fate.