A Withered Rose

I am but a withered rose;
I cannot love again.
The colour faded, washed away
by tears and falling rain

My heart has beat, incessantly
counting out the years.
The blood still flows so needlessly,
and drips like flowing tears.

I've tried to love you from afar;
but you don't seem to see
how much it hurts to watch you pass
and pay my love no heed.

The edges brown, and curl away;
the blossom hangs her head.
The sun is gone, and so my love.
The rose, once fair, is dead.

I think this poem is a dead giveaway that I'm a hormone-strewn teenager... ah well!