Dark Irises Among Soulless Voids

When A Bushel of Roses Becomes A Thorn Bush

Wherever there happens to be roses,
There's always a thorn or two.

Usually, people are entranced by the blossoms.
But then comes along,
Someone who focuses on the thorns.

I was once told,
"If you concentrate on something too often,
It's only more likely to happen."

When you pay no attention to the flower,
Only it's thorns,
Well, you're bound to get pricked.

Then, you have a thorn of your own.
You provoked the rose,
You suffered the consequences.

You see, the rose does not mean to hurt you,
It only has these dark and twisted thorns to protect itself.

But, sometimes they backfire.
What once appeared to be a few thorns,
Now seems like hundreds and hundreds-
All due to a single incident.

What was gazed upon for its beauty,
Is now averted because of its flaws.

What was once a bushel of scarlet roses,
Becomes a thorn bush.

Don't fret,
There are still roses.
But now, they're black, with specks of red.

It sounds a lovely sight,
That is, until you realize,
Those specks are drops of blood.

A few people still approach the roses,
Seeing the beauty in them.

The tragic truth is,
Not everyone sees the flowers with these positively-colored glasses.

People stop caring about the rose,
Until the petals are scattered all over the ground.
And it's almost too late.

All that's left is a single rose,
Lost in maze of thorns,
And next to none are willing to save it.

It becomes nothing more than a single thorn in your side.

(A/N: Why was I such an angsty seventh grader? I edited this a bit after its original being published here. This is one of the few poems I wrote as a seventh grader that I still like as an slightly less angsty and slightly more mature eighth grader, so I hope you enjoy this poem, but never have to see yourself as the rose. If you do, I hope you get better soon, because no one should ever feel that way.)