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.