They're attractive to see
long, thin, sharp as nails
they grow slow like snails
its life is one long jubilee

Butterfly is not a meal
but when they flew in your stomach, it felt surreal
is something that you cannot steal
a hunger that is hard to fulfill

As when thorns and butterflies collide,
You wouldn't even know how to survive
Thorns will **** you for a while
The worst feeling that you cannot hide

Thorns will pierce you and the pain is mild
Butterflies will die, even if they go wild.

I see
the roses
in you, the
delicate
petals of
of being
human,
the thorns
of us have
broken
the chains,
our feathers
glide when
darkness
once
wished
to down
the soar
of our
wings,
feathers
glide from
loud howls,
floating
up to the
place we
call as
truth.

It has thorns like roses
and solemn hues
the pinpricks from picking
these flowers have left maps on my hands
that I read when I am lost in the woods
by my childhood dreams

Silence is still...
A Rose thorn ****** into the darkness of the night.
Ghosts and ghouls wander a yard of thee,
ones who sheltered by the tree, 6ft yonder.
A veil blows as the river flows,
lost bride who can't find her ride.
Chills of the midnight light ***** down
unto your spine and you begin to run,
but their following you, chasing you-
and they won't give up until you're out of luck.
Angels fall and lose their wings to grow again and recover
their ancient beings of heaven's dream.
Silence is still,
Morning comes to greet you,
and all the spirits of the night find a place to rest,
until the next time, they may deplete you.

When I look in the mirror I see
roses. Stark and stubborn.
Bursting from the cracks
in skin too plain
to do them justice.

When I look in the mirror I see
thorns. Threatening to break through the façade
so carefully contorted to fit
that cookie-cutter idealization
of a pre-packaged identity.

When I look in the mirror I see
monochrome; like the eyes of the beholder
who twisted my covert dissatisfaction into something--
maybe not beautiful, but at least
accepted, yes; eyes that couldn't behold
when I had my own ideations; couldn't accept
that underneath that soft, dull skin,
there were thorns.

There are thorns
and there are roses, too, when I look in the mirror--
they are engulfing my reflection;
transforming my figure into one that is unrecognizable
to those discerning eyes--

but not to mine,
these fiery red eyes of the beholder
which finally recognize beauty
worthy of love.

I know, there is no place for a fickle people like me
who painted their thorns beautifully to feel the comfort of no turning back.

And the only thing I remember is the wild wood where I tracing each constellations and searching for your footsteps.