Pick me, my petals can be pedals to your heart.

Pick me, my thorns can see you out the dark.

Pick me, my stem is long, it will help you stay strong.

Pick me, my radiance will make you glance.

Pick me, my leaves will breeze with ease.

Pick me, don’t pick me for we are all more similar than what is first familiar. Though we each have our own grow, most of us sure to be pecked by crows. Still just another withered rose.