Why the rose is red

Little wild rose, growing all alone,
 Petals ivory white, with thorns as sharp as stone,
 No one is left standing of those who’ve tried to face the pain,
 Who are still willing enough to endure the fight to try once again,
 The tears build upon her face, like shining stars they adorn,
 Waiting to be wiped away by someone willing to brave the thorns,
 The air is growing colder, as the wind is blowing hard,
 As she’s forced to warm herself, alone, scratched, and scarred,
 Her tines cut her deep, much deeper than the rest,
 Each time coming closer to piercing the heart inside her chest,
 Her wounds are bleeding heavily, in silence her tears are shed,
 The damage has been done, for the little white rose, is now forever stained crimson red.