Roses are red, storm clouds are gray,
The sky is blocked with the tears from that day.
The dead and the gone used to bask in the sun
And my heart used to believe that I was someone.
This is my last chance to make you believe,
My last chance to make everyone see,
That I'm not something like a summer fling
That maybe I'm like a bee ready to sting.
This storm and its clouds are weeping hailstones
They break glass and rooftops just to make themselves known.
Is that what I have to do to the world?
To cry and steal things and hate the whole world?