A rose

Life is like a rose. You hold on to it, hoping to get more of it's wonderful feeling. If you want love, you pull off its petals, chanting the ghostly memory of a long forgotten child, begging the universe for someone to love them. So many "He loves me"s that you have forgotten the existence of the "not"s, that same child lives on in us all, still begging for love, even if from a stranger. When you're alive, you pay no attention to the delicate rose in your hand, you toss yourself around with no care for the flower in your grasp, you crush it, watch as it loses its petals, and throw it about, until it wilts. As the fragile flower in your hand dies, so do you, but now, you hold on, not wanting to let go of the rose, you grip it tight, the flower digs its thorns into your palm and your fingers, but you plead for just a few more years, promising to love the rose, but it's your time, and the flower knows that you won't keep your promise so, it digs its thorns in deep until you bleed, and let go, and the flower falls to the ground, and its seeds are spread by birds, they grow new flowers, and new lives begin once those roses bloom, and the cycle starts anew. Like I said before, life is like a rose.