Beauty’s a curse, it’s a thorn in the skin,
looks like a prize but it cuts from within.
Shine on the petals, they call it divine,
but every rose bleeds when you hold it in time.
Mirror’s a liar, it shows what you crave,
but hides all the scars that it never forgave.
Chasing the glow, but the glow don’t last,
what blooms in the spring turns to shadow real fast.
Thorns in the fingers, red drips fall,
reach for perfection, it costs it all.
Crowds see the flower, they don’t see the pain,
smell all the sweetness, ignore the stain.
Beauty’s a burden, a cage made of glass,
you carry the weight while they watch you pass.
They love the rose, but they don’t love you,
they leave when the petals start falling too.
So here’s the truth they don’t wanna expose:
beauty’s the thorn, not the crown on the rose.
It cuts the hand of whoever it keeps,
a curse in disguise that devours your sleep.
