Roses scare me. I would hate to be one.

Improv. I had to briefly cut halfway through. I would hate to be a rose, And all the things they mean. I would hate to be a loop, Unable to ever break free. I would hate to be like a stone Where the only way to grow is to strip away. I hate succumbing to my own mind, And no longer seeing the world clearly. I don't advise reading what comes next. It belongs to me, almost scares me. Would you respect that wish? There is a different way to approach myself. I am not despair. I am not insanity. I merely need to climb Out of the pit of my own ego. At least refuse to be swallowed. It may take some harsh words To wake me up from a harsh delusion, Uselessly imposed, to fuel my thoughts. I am an artist. And I tear myself apart, To get a glimpse of my soul. And I reach towards tragedy, Because my life feels too full to end perfect. And I corrupt and chain myself, So I can know once I am truly free. My words resemble habits, And my thoughts desire sincerity, Failing to reach it rends my heart. And when I'm safe I become a child, Too scared to look at himself or the world. What if I don't recognize either? I can barely see what lies before my nose. This is the essence of my foolishness. Even big words feel stupid. My words don't all sit right, I can't say if it's because they are true Or if it's because they aren't. I'm not convinced. But now they're written. It's not all ok, but surely I can get there. I should stop burdening myself all alone. Mistakes are made, But sometimes you can't let it be that deep. Right? Doing that turns you into a rose. I would hate to be a rose.