The Rose and The Bramble bush

A poet growing up believing she could not write. Scraps of beauty lying in drafts and dreams on backs of old homework assignments. Beauty written on the backs of failure. And the grades grew and invaded the truth it pervaded till her beauty was tossed away with the rest of what she was told was garbage. 
 Garbage. Garbage. Her father and mother standing over her asking Why? Why. You are better than this. We know you. We love you. A jack of all trades is a master of none, daughter, why? Why. Why can't you. just. Focus? 
And she'd start shaking Eyes to the floor. I don't know, Mum. I'm sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Garbage. Slipping from her fingers from her memories Locked away under a mile of want. Under a pile of filth, here lies a song. 
A song, dug beneath her breast, Locked away Under a mile of want, under a pile of filth. packed around stiff. hardened. dry. But still softly beating inside. 
A poet. Told "Don't you dare burst." Because bursting is breaking." “Bursting is breaking, and breaking cannot be undone You have no right to this. You are too young for this. You will not touch upon greatness As greatness has already been done, Already been laid at your feet. And you simply can recreate. You can reap from their knowledge. You can regurgitate. “ "You can have any voice but your own." 
And there they would sit on their throne of experience. Lies. She mumbles. LIES. She struggles. But as the years go by. A song soon withers and dies. Playing out an melodic apology, To every Thorny Root.