Thorns to Spear

You can compare my life
to a fresh, beautiful rose.
A stunning, crimson red,
and enticing to the nose.

Under its elegance
there are thorns to spear.
No one can look past the petals,
thus having nothing to fear.

That is how my life appears,
perfect in every single way.
Because of its appearance,
you can never see our terrible days.

All you can, or want to see
is a simple family of four,
and by the looks of it,
we were all happy, for sure.

However, the rose begins to wilt,
and ugliness rears its evil head.
The crimson red turns black,
because one from the four is dead.

How do you see my life now?
Is it perfect or just plain dismay.
Do you still think in your head,
that I never have a bad day?

Beauty can only last for so long
until it wilts & bears thorns to spear.
Now I have a legitimate reason
to shed one final and single tear.

This is about the death of my father, so please comment and tell me if you think this is an exeptional poem.