The Rose With The Thorns


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.


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