Rose are red,like the blood from the heart. Beauty unadorned in all it's vile hatred we adore, the rose
that is red...Oh how the petal bloom within my chest, that it constricts me so. Beautiful pain and ugly pleasure
I feel the thorns that make bleed and weave about my bleeding veins. The beauty of death is the hideousness of life, how
seldom it is that we know the difference.
The rose of red that made me bleed and oh how I love it so!
When innocence is in bloom the scent of lavender and a funest doom, The flowers planted within soil
and it sings to me nevermore. Tis the beauty of being born to have the gift of feeling pain or pleasure, for
what was once joy is now nothing but a blood red drop on your index finger. Staining red
your porcelain skin, the tears of blood that leave your heart and travel your veins-to the painful kiss of a
rose of red....