When you look at my portrait what is it that you see?
Don’t tell me its perfect, I know what it could be
A rose it is that I have painted
But in so many ways, it feels so tainted
Distortions, abstractions, its color fades to black
Lacking true brilliance its petals begin to crack
A rose I wanted to paint, I wanted it to be mine
This i painted but it wasn’t the right kind
So many colors but they all just smear
Watery and dripping nothing is clear
Its stem is dry and covered with thorns
Screaming out for water in its misery it mourns
One petal is plucked and I asked of his love?
The red turned to black the sky’s grey above
The paint rests as the air is calm and still
Not ready for color, the rose must heal
The clouds roll in and lightening that pierces your soul
Another petal is plucked, still the rose holds on
The winds kicks up, the heart heavy and afraid
Caught in a whirlwind more paint gets sprayed
Watery and dripping not ready for what is ahead
Not knowing what color is right, can my rose be dead?