My war with red roses began in perfect plains,
With wide smiles and hugs,
Overlaid by a wide embrace.
Perfect compliments masked vanity,
And in flawless beauty, I perceived deceit. 
The opposite became clear of creatures presenting themselves as holy.
But, for me, I prefer chaos,
The uncertainty of things.
I like the cracks in the windows,
The unsteady hinges of drawers,
A gray cloud in a blue sky,
Or the thorns and thistles in a sea of green ferns. 
The rough edges to speak,
The stain of an artwork,
Somehow strips the filters off
Assuring me comfort in a counterfeit world. 
It allows me to be vulnerable,
To smile and frown,
Where I can embrace the storm inside,
While planting myself in a garden of bright, wild willows. 
I’d prefer that over a field of sunflowers,
That bloom under the sunlight,
And become scattered remnants come wintertime.
Transforming into useless chasms that hide my wide, mournful bellows. 
Scars grant spirits aged lines and wisdom,
And reveal the treasures of imperfect life
Bright in a colorless world full of people filled with smiles
But my preference for disorder longs for the sad one in the middle,
Whose joy is rooted in ecstasy of the unknown.
Call me an advocate for social grievances,
Against false personhoods and construction,
But I favor the tears dripping over gravestones,
Belonging to a heart that faces pain
And desires smiles to emerge,
Once the storm has reached its end.
Rather than roses sprouting over passing corpses,
Ignoring and releasing perfumed scents.
To them, I bring chaos to remind them of the brief existence
Of unfulfilled hope met.