Paint the roses red
Cut off their thorns
Pretend to be someone else
To please the one on the throne.
Foreign colour seeping through petals
All the way down to the vein
Changing yourself for the “better”
When all is nothing but unseen pain.
The rose once unique, now red
Like a copy of everyone else
The ones meant to please are spoon fed
While they look down from the mountain peak.
Each flaw, like thorns sticking out
Cut off to not prick
Thought that thorns scream danger out loud
That each one bloody nicks.
Painted flower
Thorns gone
Diverse never
Not the only one.
~Veda Bitragunta
