White Rose

nothing is sadder than a withered white rose in the fall
such a short life, wasted
the once pure color gone brown
no amount of sun or rain can bring it back
desperate to live again
so fragile, so helpless
swaying lonely in the wind
falling away
piece by piece
until it is gone
and it will be replaced
as if it meant nothing

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Writing, singing, and dancing are my escapes from reality, my therapy from this world. It fills me with peace whenever I scribble down my mind, sing out my heart, or dance with my soul. I wrote this when I was going through a dark place, and it's easy to look down at a thirteen year old and say "You don't know what you're talking about." But you don't know me, my past, or my dreams. I would like to say thank you to my friends and family and Erin and Dena of course. Thank you for believing in me.