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21/F
Poetry is the expresser of life poetry is music, Shakespeare, art poetry is pure emotion. It helped fill in the cracks of my toughest days, …
Nowhere, but everywhere
I lived I loved I hoped I broke I write
Poems
Kaitlynn Owens Oct 2018
The Rose and Her Thorns
Kaitlynn Owens
Oct 2018
She’s a rose
Her thorns are my flaws
People always say how She’s pretty but leave her without picking her up,
They harvest her and put her on display what is that called? Life?
People complain about her thorns like no other rose has them?
She’s proud of her thorns they’re part of who She is,
Call them battle scars
Call them her guardians
They won’t hurt you if your tough enough though?
Why do you think roses have thorns?
Why don’t you just try and pick her up?
I promise her thorns won’t hurt you!
They just want to be valued for being part of her,
Get to know her as a whole I promise you won’t regret it?
Maybe you’ll find her thorns beautiful too!
Take her outside this flower store
Call her yours
We all have flaws,
We all have had something that hurt people before,
It doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be given chances,
Doesn’t mean that the rest of us don’t need love,
Open your eyes see the beauty inside her,
In the things she survived
She’s strong,
She’s worth more than gold,
Don’t give up on her,
Pull her out of her roots,
Give her life somewhere else,
But if you can’t pick her up because of her thorns your wrong!
She’s a rose,
She’s the voice the winds the beat and she sings a beautiful song,
Don’t be afraid of what it takes to get her,
Be afraid of losing her,
Something so beautiful,
Yet so fragile,
Don’t break her,
Just love her,
Please just give her a chance,
Don’t judge her thorns from where you stand,
She’s beautiful, unique, life changing, Loyal, Understanding, so much more than you know and just wants to be valued.
She’s a rose
Her thorns are my flaws
People always say how She’s pretty but leave her without picking her up,
They harvest her and put her on display what is that called? Life?
People complain about her thorns like no other rose has them?
She’s proud of her thorns they’re part of who She is,
Call them battle scars
Call them her guardians
They won’t hurt you if your tough enough though?
Why do you think roses have thorns?
Why don’t you just try and pick her up?
I promise her thorns won’t hurt you!
They just want to be valued for being part of her,
Get to know her as a whole I promise you won’t regret it?
Maybe you’ll find her thorns beautiful too!
Take her outside this flower store
Call her yours
We all have flaws,
We all have had something that hurt people before,
It doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be given chances,
Doesn’t mean that the rest of us don’t need love,
Open your eyes see the beauty inside her,
In the things she survived
She’s strong,
She’s worth more than gold,
Don’t give up on her,
Pull her out of her roots,
Give her life somewhere else,
But if you can’t pick her up because of her thorns your wrong!
She’s a rose,
She’s the voice the winds the beat and she sings a beautiful song,
Don’t be afraid of what it takes to get her,
Be afraid of losing her,
Something so beautiful,
Yet so fragile,
Don’t break her,
Just love her,
Please just give her a chance,
Don’t judge her thorns from where you stand,
She’s beautiful, unique, life changing, Loyal, Understanding, so much more than you know and just wants to be valued.
She’s a rose
HeartCore Nov 2017
A Rose Without Thorns
HeartCore
Nov 2017
A rose without thorns.
A rose so beautiful as yourself. Who dares to clip your thorns? Those you use to protect yourself. Or did you just let them fall off in that lonely dark shelf.
What kind of rose are you?
Where are your sharp pointy thorns?! You were a devil back then, with those long and black horns. They protruded to my core, you stabbed me with a double edge sword that ran through my heart, leaving bittersweet memories and myself wanting for more.
So, let me ask you again
What kind of rose are you?
I see you have bloomed so well but no more thorns to impale. now I’m sitting next to you listening to your tales. I’m sorry to state but I must say farewell. 'What a fine gentleman you have found as your mate
What kind of rose are you now?
I guess you did let go of your thorns. You made me bleed and drop to my knees back then When I tried to carefully carry you, earth and root right off the ground
to make a home for you where you will be safe and sound.
Mother nature gave you that wonderful protection
which is my motivation
to keep going after you, because I know you’re not going to be easily handpicked by anyone.
Hm what a fine gardener he was,
now you’re in vase.
A rose without thorns
Withering without a base
Sooner or later he will think your just a piece of waste.
"Thank you for the view what a wonderful taste"
He would say.
Not I
I would fix your heart and never let it come apart.
So what kind of rose are you?
Are you the kind that has been grown by light
the one that has so much pride but doesn’t fight back?
Or are you the one raised below the shadow struggling your way out of a thin crack.
What kind of rose are you?
Whether you’re a rose whose thorns were clipped or a dead rose drowning in grief there always will be the right person who will protect you
and help you in your needs.
A rose so beautiful as yourself. Who dares to clip your thorns? Those you use to protect yourself. Or did you just let them fall off in that lonely dark shelf.
What kind of rose are you?
Where are your sharp pointy thorns?! You were a devil back then, with those long and black horns. They protruded to my core, you stabbed me with a double edge sword that ran through my heart, leaving bittersweet memories and myself wanting for more.
So, let me ask you again
What kind of rose are you?
I see you have bloomed so well but no more thorns to impale. now I’m sitting next to you listening to your tales. I’m sorry to state but I must say farewell. 'What a fine gentleman you have found as your mate
What kind of rose are you now?
I guess you did let go of your thorns. You made me bleed and drop to my knees back then When I tried to carefully carry you, earth and root right off the ground
to make a home for you where you will be safe and sound.
Mother nature gave you that wonderful protection
which is my motivation
to keep going after you, because I know you’re not going to be easily handpicked by anyone.
Hm what a fine gardener he was,
now you’re in vase.
A rose without thorns
Withering without a base
Sooner or later he will think your just a piece of waste.
"Thank you for the view what a wonderful taste"
He would say.
Not I
I would fix your heart and never let it come apart.
So what kind of rose are you?
Are you the kind that has been grown by light
the one that has so much pride but doesn’t fight back?
Or are you the one raised below the shadow struggling your way out of a thin crack.
What kind of rose are you?
Whether you’re a rose whose thorns were clipped or a dead rose drowning in grief there always will be the right person who will protect you
and help you in your needs.
L Jan 2017
On Being Covered In Thorns
L
Jan 2017
Some people will approach you. You will let them, and they will hurt you.
But here’s the twist: they won’t want to.
Their intentions are sweet and pure, like petals that drip in honey.
Flowers; but the kind that are covered in thorns.
But here’s the twist: they do not know they have thorns.
“Where are you!” they will cry, standing in the quiet café you would meet.
But they will not find you.
You hide, hearing their soft whimpers, and you think, “Oh, what should I do?”
But you see, you cannot tell them about their thorns.
You cannot say ‘you are unsafe for me’ without breaking their heart and yours with the truth, the crushing truth. For thorns only fall when a soul has grown enough, and theirs has not grown where yours has;
“Please speak to me! I don’t understand!”
and this is why they do not yet have the capacity to understand your silence.
You hide still, and you cover your ears, but oh, how painful it can be, when flowers are so stubborn!
“Shush”! you want to tell them, “Shush! You cannot yet hear the truth! Stop calling my name, I’ve little patience left! Do not hurt yourself, do not hurt me!”
The thorns that *****, the honey-kissed petals that fall.
Oh, how frustrating! -to hide from flowers who only wish to love, but have not yet learned how.
Oh, how sorrowful! -to see a hand bleed when you caress it, to be covered in thorns, and to not even know it!
Yes, how awful it is, to hurt another.
I will tell you something.
I have pricked the ones I love, when I only wanted to give,
and I have hurt flowers who all but withered away at my silence- whose souls had not grown where mine had.
So you see, I am both the flower and the Other, so I understand.
And so here it is, here is what I want to say:
Shush, flower. Stop calling their name. You cannot yet hear the truth. Do not look for it; for it will crush you. Do not hurt yourself, do not hurt them. Shush; the pain you seek to **** will not wane with force. Shush, flower, quiet your wants. Listen instead; listen to the lessons of the universe, grow. For only when you have grown will you be able to understand.
Shush, flower, and know, that one day you will sigh at the memory of your pain, and the thorns will have fallen from your body; and flower, oh flower,
you will be able to hold their hand.
But here’s the twist: they won’t want to.
Their intentions are sweet and pure, like petals that drip in honey.
Flowers; but the kind that are covered in thorns.
But here’s the twist: they do not know they have thorns.
“Where are you!” they will cry, standing in the quiet café you would meet.
But they will not find you.
You hide, hearing their soft whimpers, and you think, “Oh, what should I do?”
But you see, you cannot tell them about their thorns.
You cannot say ‘you are unsafe for me’ without breaking their heart and yours with the truth, the crushing truth. For thorns only fall when a soul has grown enough, and theirs has not grown where yours has;
“Please speak to me! I don’t understand!”
and this is why they do not yet have the capacity to understand your silence.
You hide still, and you cover your ears, but oh, how painful it can be, when flowers are so stubborn!
“Shush”! you want to tell them, “Shush! You cannot yet hear the truth! Stop calling my name, I’ve little patience left! Do not hurt yourself, do not hurt me!”
The thorns that *****, the honey-kissed petals that fall.
Oh, how frustrating! -to hide from flowers who only wish to love, but have not yet learned how.
Oh, how sorrowful! -to see a hand bleed when you caress it, to be covered in thorns, and to not even know it!
Yes, how awful it is, to hurt another.
I will tell you something.
I have pricked the ones I love, when I only wanted to give,
and I have hurt flowers who all but withered away at my silence- whose souls had not grown where mine had.
So you see, I am both the flower and the Other, so I understand.
And so here it is, here is what I want to say:
Shush, flower. Stop calling their name. You cannot yet hear the truth. Do not look for it; for it will crush you. Do not hurt yourself, do not hurt them. Shush; the pain you seek to **** will not wane with force. Shush, flower, quiet your wants. Listen instead; listen to the lessons of the universe, grow. For only when you have grown will you be able to understand.
Shush, flower, and know, that one day you will sigh at the memory of your pain, and the thorns will have fallen from your body; and flower, oh flower,
you will be able to hold their hand.