Roses are red.
Violets are blue,
Sugar is sweet,
And so are you.
But the roses are wilted,
The violets are dead,
The sugar bowls empty,
And my wrists are stained red.
Hate is a flame found deep inside,
It never flickers, and never dies.
Embrace it and it will make you whole,
But careful, for all has it's toll.
I'll draw you a picture, I'll draw it with a twist
I'll draw it with a razor-blade, I'll draw it on my wrist
And if i draw it right, a red fountain shall appear
To was away my sorrow and chase away my fear.
And the violets are no longer blue.
The roses are not red.
The sugar bowls still empty,
And baby boy, I'm dead.

-Unknown