Plucking the petals off my flower,
Bruising them beyond repair,
It’ll take a miracle this time to grow another,
Even the soil from which it grew is rotten.
Pure and white before they’re plucked,
Tarnished and saturated in red as they fall,
Brown and dry when they land,
Blood dripping from the plucker’s hand.
It’s thorns were once a symbol of beauty and strength,
But somehow someone/something managed to break through them,
With no regard for the beauty nor the time put in to grow the precious flower,
But instead the plucker finds pleasure in the agonizing demise with every pluck.
Won’t someone save my flower,
Stop me from plucking her away,
I worked so hard to protect her,
And now I’m tearing her apart.