As I look around, I see people holding roses in their hands.
Their red roses are so full of life. They constantly get new ones without losing the other.
While mine is black. That was once red.
The darkness of the black rose is my shield from their kindness. The thorns of the rose are my swords.
Their red roses laugh at me, and sink their thorns in my heart.
The holders may not know of the pain that their roses are inflicting on me, but in same sense, I donít think they really care.
My bleeding heart aces for love at times.
Though Iím to much lost in the darkness to try and find it.
As I look around, I see roses. Endless red roses.
Though Iím here in the dark, with my black rose and a bleeding heart.