Every Rose Has Its Thorn
Beauty wears a gentle face,
But beneath—there hides disgrace.
A creature coils beneath the skin,
Where charm ends, the truths begin.
I ride this bus, day after day,
Swallowing dreams that fade away.
The seats around me start to shift—
Like minds adrift, they start to drift.
They wear their masks of victimhood,
Craving praise for doing good.
Wrapped in robes of validation,
But speak in warped interpretation.
They speak with words like sharpened knives,
Redefining all our lives.
Armed with books and heavy terms,
Yet ignorance behind them squirms.
Their eyes—so hollow, cold, untrue,
But I see through the tinted view.
They cry aloud, demand a “why,”
But choke the truth they let die.
Emotions staged, rehearsed, contrived—
And everything once real…
did not survive.
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