My beauty is like a rose, a prickly kind.
My thorns strengthen as my beauty grows.
They pose with a purpose behind.
Without my thorns I couldn’t be a rose.
My pretty is a harder kind, tough like glass.
It takes a different mind to understand my class.
I am a woman, broken, but pure.
My beauty is outspoken.
You will never be unsure.
A rose is a rose because it’s supposed to be.
Like a rose, I am undeniably me.
I can bring you heaven but there’s chaos in me.
I work like a peasant to live like royalty.
I wear my crown with a tilt,
And my petals are red without guilt.