My mother always warned me about my rose with the thorns
I have scars across my hands and stitches that shut my ears
But my mind is over matter, intake intellect over impulse
Adapt with trial and error while continuing to fall behind
If love is truly pain then my passions must be suffering
Thank god for that because at least I consciously will breath it
No need to inculcate me, I’m invigorated to the core
Continue to harvest the spoils and drive my blank roads
With meaningless signs with darker to blacker backdrops
Flats of artificial meaning that melts my fourth wall
The hierarchy begins to crumble, the curtains begin to part
Let the show begin because this is one of many tales
But I’m not a broken record, snowflake, nor a shattered soul
I’m a venting triumph machine climbing walls and early ladders
Circumventing cowards, hypocrites, and bullies with my cunning
How great to be alive!
How great to be scarred!
How great to leave behind…my rose with the thorns.