I wrote this poem in the middle of the night, I couldn't fall asleep so I went in the living room and decided to write. On the table was a vase, with, just one rose. I was to tired to think of something to write, and was getting really pissed off at the rose, just sitting there in tranquility of it's own, not caring about it's environment. That's how I began to write this poem, first on little yellow post it notes, just words, phrases, i must have had 30 of them, filled front and back, but I could not take it anymore, shoved the hole pack in my back pack, and went back to bed. I couldn't fall asleep, so I made up verses about the rose. I didn't remeber anything about it in the next week or so, only to find it again while looking for a pencil. You must understand, the original poem did not have such negativity, for as time passed by, all of the verses were lost in my cells, and THAT's where the hate comes from. From not having all the original post-its, (i'm not the most organized guy, it's no secret), as well as from not remembering the "original" stanzas