What is the value of a rose? What’s so precious about this flower if it shall have awfully sharp and dangerous thorns all throughout its stem. What is the purpose of having such marvelous poise on top of such pointy, tangled mess? Nothing! It’s worth nothing, mom. And I apologize for being a rose. I am truly sorry. I know, I know… you have never been so evil to call me a rose, but I know that is what I am, and I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for giving you deep, red thoughts and words: “I love you”. They are real, though. I’m sorry for the delicate intricacy I enforce in the poems I give you. It is for love, though. And I am sorry for these flowers because of one fat reason: the thorns. I grieve because the coldness of my enunciation towards you has murdered the warmth that is meant to be. I mourn because the bitch living in my mouth has killed Care and Affection. I weep because these beautiful flowers are not enough; because they are effortlessly slayed by the damn, uninvited thorns. I’m walking through Woe because an art piece of color is buried under layers and layers of black; and, all of a sudden, the color that’s lying there, loses any value it once possessed.