The true rose

My deadly rose, you give a confusing sight.
How I hate the way you bite, poke, sway,
Pierce through my mind day and night,
You try too hard to go out and play.

You start to shrivel in November.
You are more evil, spiky, and intense.
Red frost nips the robins of December,
And thinking of wintertime makes you wince.

I dislike you for so many reasons.
I hate your powerful leaves, spine, and spikes.
Thinking of your shrivel spine in certain seasons
My hate for you goes til it strikes.

Now we must part til next spring,
Remember my dense words tho they may sting.