There is a rose-bush. At the very end of the garden. It stands surrounded and beautiful. It houses white roses with pink tips, that fall to the floor when you touch them. Delicate. Effortless then broken. Falling but surrounded. It’s always been a wonderful sight, that rose-bush. Thorns are there too, intertwined with the prettiness. The sudden sting that sucks the crimson from your skin. The thorns, we do not look at them. For the roses, what a beautiful, beautiful thing. If I could scream at roses. I would scream at their every falling petal. To run. To live and to jump and sing. I would scream at their every falling petal. To be political, relentless, stop at nothing. Scream at their pretty darling sight, to stop feeling the sting of falling. Do not care. Go everywhere. Do not sit in dark, feeling the scratches from your thorns. Be your own fairytale. Be a beautiful beautiful thing… There is a rose-bush… At the very end of the garden. And if I could scream at roses, I would tell them,
Thank you so much for reading, I’m really emotional while writing this, I don’t know. I guess it’s just a love for those pretty roses. Also, I have lots of different posts coming soon so yay you get a break from all this random creative writing.
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