These are the thorns.
Push, push it down deep inside then further
because so few are willing to see this, so few
want to be reminded of who they are.
How silent, how loathsome
how pitiful in who they have become and
I refuse to be one.
I refuse to be one of them but
my mind will not be quiet
there is no hatred anymore only
because I am and I need to be
what you hate.
I am unrestrained, I am fuck you and this and fuck that and
and where is your voice? Copy paste share fuck you, and you, and you. These are the thorns.
I hold my breath and scream as loud as I can please. I am the part of you disconnected, disenchanted, disillusioned.
Let me die to be real, let me live in your grace, call me a miracle and I will do everything to deny you, I have travelled beyond hope and in doing so, found it again. Through you, I found me.
Life is a circle that I need to break out of, holding dear my memories of death, of life. In the belly of the beast I find myself and I see you. I see you so unreal and I will never be able to quench my thirst for calling you out. The sheen of my spittle makes you a star, the life that you have denied. Whoever you are, you are a star.
These are the exquisite, deadly sharp thorns of what lies inside, lost inside the soft bloodred pedals and the turmoil of the Sea. Still and forever, the thorns will always desire to draw the silent hatred of your blood, see it run. I have seen enough of mine.
Tell me still that I am a miracle, and I will swing on you, lay you down. tell me of your disdain for my drinking and I will listen, understand, and in a twisted way, forgive. In a backwards journey this is here and there and back again and I am back.
These are the thorns, this is only a knock on the door of my past. I live in the present, look towards the target, but my past gives me strength. I drink to erase it, but honestly it is my past that you see in my eyes, read in my words. Peace is a world, a work in progress. I will find its elusive grace.
These are the thorns. Please remember the pedals. I am the painful bloom, the flower that people see without seeing the growth. I