Violets are blue, or purple, or so.

Roses are red, or pink, or yellow.

Blades and bullets tossed from us to them.

Nothing compares in reality to film.

It rains thick and dark contagious red

From his arm, his chest, his hip, or leg.

The beat, the bump, the throb, the thump

What I was once, for sure be gone

Was I a fool to take this road alone?

What is a hero?

Am I a hero if no one sees my noble actions?

What if I fell on poisoned grass

trying to save someone I do not know?

Would violets bloom around my bloody soul?

If I hear the screams of innocence and choose to ignore it

Does that make me vicious and unfit?

My heart is asleep on safe sound soil

Her grace keeps me running even without oil.

Am I a man if I sometimes am afraid?

If I want to ship myself to her where I am safe

Am I a man if I sometimes am afraid?

Violets are blue or purple or so.

Around my temple of bravery they grow.

Watered and fed by my own rains of red

From my arm, my chest, but mostly

 My head.