Every Rose has its thorn,
Just like every night has its dawn.
Every rose has its thorn,
Despite the fact that they look shorn
Every dusk has a twilight,
Even if the vision is too far too sight.
Every rose has it’s thorn to cut others with,
Some perpetually…others through mischief.
Everything that’s beautiful inside out,
Has something inside to hide no doubt.
Every rose with a thorn to cut,
will use it once despite the unjust.
Every human is born as a rose,
Quiet, sweet, a life of repose.
Every beautiful person has an ugly side,
A side we feel we must hide.
Every bud begins as a seed,
Growing ever taller despite rank weeds.
Every bud, be it orange, red, black or pink,
Will be battered and forced to sink.
Every time we go through pain, its washed away by a cleansing rain.
Every rose with an outside of red signifies to others that it has bled.
Every tear that we allow to leak out,
Gives us strength after an arduous bout.
Every rose that gets through a winter,
Can be called beautiful, a winner.
Every human has their thorns,
Some are hidden and others adorned.
Every rose is unique;
Originality is not yet obsolete.
I though it was interesting how you compared the rose to a human by more than just their thorns. The part about surviving the winter and other tough times, as well as originality, help to develop the comparison even farther.
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