Sampling Two: The Rose Amongst the Daisies

As promised, I'm revealing some of my writings as a sort of catharsis. I actually really enjoyed writing this one, so enjoy, I guess.

The rose amongst the daisies stands in a field of yellow,
its thorns are sharp, its petals soft, it's regal but it's mellow.
The daisies ask the rose each day: "Why be so defensive?
When someone dear takes you from here, then it's all the better.
See rose, the clouds, the sun above; why must you be so pensive?
Rejoice in life, in love, in laughter; give up your pointy fetter."
But the rose just sits and sheds a petal, crimson, limp, and torn,
wondering why the Earth's so bright and why it was even born.
"The daisy," it mutters in tones a-wearied, "knows nothing of my plight.
They dance, they sway, they giggle and play, with nary e'er a fright.
If only they knew of the dangers in store, of pain, illness, and death,
they, the gleeful contended ones, would feel naked with thorns bereft.
They turn their faces to the sun, make petals bright and sunny,
they understand only happiness, bees, and honey.
They forget the world, its cares, its woes, and turn their backs aloof,
maintain their naive children's dreams in the face of dreary proof.
Their life is as short as their attention span, they can't be bothered with suff'ring,
They bud, they grow; then, doom: a holocaustal off'ring.
"I've lived before," the rose warns aloud, "and I know what is in store;
it's fast, it's cruel; they chop you down, then you are no more.
You daisies, with your visage fresh, your countenance clean and bubbly,
are packed in vases a dozen abreast, even more than doubly.
No resurrection is in store, and by this time next year
I'll say this adage to new-born daisies here.
And while you rot in houses, I'll mourn with dry eye,
for my like end will be approaching nigh.
But I will bloom again, my friends, for I am more resilient;
Once you are faded, dry, and bald, I will bloom more brilliant.
It's happened to me times before: death and then rebirth,
and every time I get cut down I double in heart and girth.
"You, my children," the red rose coos, "will never know of love
until you've suffered and pruned a hundred time with solace only from above."
The daisies keep on dancing, gaily twirling, whirling, and flailing,
while the rose resumes its melancholy weeping and wailing.