Thorny Rose Bush

Clock is ticking…mind is wracking…thoughts are racing…

 

I pick up the phone…pain begins to seep. I read what I see with my eyes and I weep. I look of horror and jaw open…being of human gasping for life until the final hour. Is it better to be stabbed in the hand than to be pricked by a thorny rose bush? My eyes are wide open, but my mouth has been shushed. Not a word from me…not a word I can speak…for fear of looking down and reading I see. Unable to walk…unable to act. I sit and stare with my thoughts intact.

 

Nonexistent peace as this piano plays its tune. A song of sorrow…a song of pain. A song that has been performed a thousand times before. Is the music playing too soon? Is the instrument merely playing itself? My heart bleeds…my heart cries…if only they understand my pain in my thoughts inside. For a lost child in an adult’s body can’t cope with itself as it loses its mind. As if the rose bush pricks itself with its own thorn, never to live again. Never to experience life as it should be.

 

I look and read the pain, I feel it. Far away and I feel it. The pain lashes out, grabbing ahold… Dragging the child down into the abyss…drowning…sinking…dying. And yet…something’s amiss. For this child has ran away…aimless…on its own. Outcasted. Angry. Depressed. A shadow of a former flower. A Black Rose haunts me in my dreams.

 

This flower doesn’t understand. It can’t think. It only acts on its own merit. Lost without a way out. Running away from nothing. Losing itself upon the world to see. Cries out ‘I’m not insane!’ to the world ‘they’re the ones who are insane!’ Losing control…can’t look…only pricks the people it sees.

 

I take my blade wrapped in vorpal, I take it upon my hand to stab my other hand. For it is better to stab my own hand than to be pricked by a thorny rose bush. I look at my hand, as it can’t contain itself from the phone. The phone is nothing more than an object, it’s not alive…it’s not…alive…not…alive.

 

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