That patch of roses right over there;

They seem so perfect you just have to stare;

How much you desire to be one of them;

Perhaps if you change your look and follow the trend;

But that is nothing like you at all;

For you are too different, you’re the odd ball;

But now that you think of it a bit more;

To be stuck in the ground is such a bore;

Plus, they hurt to hold for they have those thorns;

They just leave others with sadness and scorn;

So farewell, confused little things;

They will peak too high, and then they will feel the sting;