The Blue Rose

I hope you know
that when I see a blue rose
that I think of you.

No my dear,
not a warmth in my heart.
Much more deep than that.

It's more like
a pinch in my stomach,
cold blood in my veins;
the feeling of hatred
that drives me insane.

Because you tore me in a half,
forcing me to choose,
between what truly makes me happy
and what makes me lose --

in the end.

I see the image
of you again
last year beside my locker
with that rose in your hand.

A beautiful white rose,
trashed with paint,
and it almost drooped to the side
as if it were to faint.

I almost can pity
that poor old rose
for being covered with immaturity
and watching you pose.

You're so fake.

You're fake when you speak,
you're fake when you walk,
you're fake when you laugh,
you're fake when you're pissed off.

You lie like it's nothing,
and you waste your life away
like there's nothing to lose.

You're so sick.

And you're so messed up!

Why did I give you that chance again?

But in summation,
I feel the need to say
that I found a blue pedal
laying astray.

And I hope you know
that I crumbled it in
disgust
and that I hope you will
finally grow up --
that'd be a plus.