A short, old poem on the beauty industry's influence on society. If someone could offer me a little constructive criticism, I would be much obliged.
Oh pretty rose
How you prod me so
I grasp your stem and I bleed
This is standard of all things beautiful
Evils appearance is how it deceives
I approached you ever so carefully
Still oblivious to the threat that you posed
And when my hand reached your shaft
I threw caution to the wind
And brought the crown of your bud to my nose
Asphyxiating, with my hand stained deep crimson
My vision has begun to blur
The dark bloom rising, the green filling in
Eyes dulling, ears buzzing a loud whir
The black truth do I see in death
All senses now of no avail
The sinister beauties use their whims and their wiles
To over us, always prevail
