I picked a rose this morning. And it was so fresh it looked like it was crying. I thought how sad to be so beautiful. Only to wither and die. Like Papa's Roses soft and pale. Like petals thrown in the dirt. Only silence is spoken here. All that grows here is hurt. And Papa's Roses. Papa wasn't really a hardened man. He could be tender at times. I remember it was like it holiday. When he was gentle and kind. He gave those roses his heart and soul. I wish he'd saved some for me. It would've been such a simple thing. For me to be like Papa's Roses. Like Papa's Roses soft and pale. Like petals thrown in the dirt. Only silence is spoken here. All that grows here is hurt. And Papa's Roses. Voices that whisper soft and low. Forever buried inside. Haunted by images dark and cold. Forever burned in your mind. But I dreamed I could fly away. Like an angel I'd fly. To the places where I could forget. Forget that I was like Papa's Roses. Like Papa's Roses soft and pale. Like petals thrown in the dirt. Only silence is spoken here. All that grows here is hurt. And Papa's Roses.