when I die, promise to bring roses, not just any roses dark red roses almost black roses .
And before you lay them on my grave, cut off the thorns because they were the reason I had passed away.
My life is a rose with so many thorns. I started off bright red and as time passed, and I got the worst of life, the bright
red became darker and darker. As the rose slowly died day by day, the petals started to fall off, one by one.
By the time it hit the last petal the rose was black.
Black as the life I lived, black as the soul of mine.
Lay them down on my grave, and for every dark rose you see, remember me, that rose has my spirit, that rose was once me.
