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Flowers, flowers and more pretty flowers.
That's all one ever thinks about Spring.
What about Thorns, I ask?
But no one seems to hear me.
All they want to know about is the Rose.
As the Spring I feel compressed,
Obstructed by the Strain of the stretching length.
Crushed by the load of impounding Stress.
But, I am a Rose.
My fragrance spreads joy to a billion others,
But no one releases me from the Thorn that binds me.
They're scared they say,
And I don't blame them.
For I beat myself to become this Rose.
So I stand, as Spring does,
Watched by a million eyes.
I bounce when the Stress of Summer arrives,
To live carefree another day.
Only to realize I've trampled on the Thorn.
The Thorn that Strains to cut the Rose away.
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