Rose From The Thorn Poem by Irene D..

Hurt is a strike that knows me well
The things on which my shoulders fell
And pricked, pricked my heart.

Stole a sparkle from my eye
In exchange for all but a tear to cry
Drip, drip, falling down.

Little cuts and occasional stabs
Each time I reach, a thorn I grab
Bleed, bleed, the scars.

How does this always come to be?
Why so often does this happen to me?
Why, why I wonder.

The thorn is something I can no longer bear
I wish, I hope; I have had my scare
Please, please, I plead.

The thorn from which the scars were made
Taught me to stand in dark and shade
Strong, strong, I grow.

In it's prickling tricks I found mistakes
Captured them and sorrowed risks at stake
But wise, wise I grow.

The jabs which made my beauty to cringle
With new sense of mind, it mingled
And fairer, fairer my heart.

And suddenly there is a spring bloom
A bud forms through the foggy gloom
Blossom, blossom in the warm sun.

Taken aback by the strange scent of new
And the pink shades shower this blue
Colour, colour coming to life.

In lurking shadows of things most vile
My lips stretch out to seek a smile
Rose, rose, the rose from the thorn.