I see roses in the rain,
Gentle reminders of my pain.
Such delicates so bright and red,
Drowning in drops of shame.

One’s potential to be tall and blooming,
Is stopped short by a need for grooming.
Its thorns all pricked off one by one,
From all the hate it is consuming.

Teardrops battering it from side and side,
Makes it so hard for the rose to shine.
To show that red isn’t its only color;
To show that it wishes to never comply.

But it’s hard for the rose, you see.
Where it lives, the raindrops just won’t leave it be.
Pummeling down,
Seemingly unrelentingly.

Sixteen years in,
The rose doesn’t seem so thin,
Although some raindrops hurt more than others,
Its petals (oddly enough), begin to take the form of a grin.