He had given her roses, because he knew they would make her happy. He was right, because when he handed them to her, her smile lit up the whole room. And this smile was real.
When she got home and started putting the roses in a vase, she pricked herself. The thorns had not been removed.
She watched the blood trickle down her finger and she wondered why it felt good.
they draw blood, hurt from the red and white roses bushes. My very first attempt at growing this year. They are beautiful, tall, long stem and gorgeous on my table.
Thorns hurt a lot they placed them on Jesus’ head and he bled as he had thorns on his head and a cross on his back. the least they could do was leave the roses on the crown of thorns they placed on his head, it would have been courteous.
All of a sudden I was sinking in a thorn bush. Feelings all around me, they rushed through me like waves at sea. I didn’t know what was going on but I felt the weight of the world around me, and the sinking feeling in my chest.
They drip from you like blood, and you fight with them. I can see it in your eyes. Don’t hide from me, because I can save you. I can cup your beauty in the palm of my hand, and I can hold you until it doesn’t hurt so much just to live. This tangled web we weave, stop moving, let the blood clot. You don’t have to hurt anymore. I’m here.
She skips along the path, kicking up dirt along the way. Her hands sway back and forth, occasionally scraping along the thorns that protrude from the bushes lining her trail, but she doesn’t mind.
Why do so many fairytales and children’s stories involve thorns? They’re not deadly. (Unless you’re a hemophiliac.) I’d have thought there were more dangerous natural phenomena that could have been common themes in literature, rather than thorns. I guess thorns were a big problem “once upon a time.”
The thorns stuck into my side. I tried taking them out one by one. Each one brings a small droplet of blood. Oozing down my abdomen, I tried to keep the red drink inside. It was mine. All mine and you will not take it again. Not again.
you could wear a crown of thorns but that’s hardly original, is it? instead, try this ring, this bracelet, this necklace. do you wear anklets, too? or are those out of fashion?
it’s a fashion statement, believe me, it’ll be all the rage this season. prickly handbags, dresses made of angry roses, just you wait, YSL’s fall collection is going to be all about it.
Thorns seemed to have climbed up the gateway over the time I was away. It would be difficult to get rid of these pesky plants since this house has not been cared for for an entire year.
The thorns were the bloody bane of the field of flowers, tugging on uniforms of wary travelers until they became so fed up that they lit torches and burnt the field down and then salted the smoldering earth. All because of the thorns did this field die…
Thorns grow everywhere. There’s honestly no point to them; at least, not as far as humans are concerned. Nature developed them to protect plants in their natural habitat. It seems like a great cosmic joke that nature also developed not-real thorns; thorns that are capable of stinging without a physical manifestation. Words can be used as thorns. So can self-doubt.
Thorns can be long and sharp but they can also be tiny and sharp. They protect the roses but they hurt my hands, I don’t think they are pretty and they don’t seem to protect the roses from little tiny bugs. They only protect from large creatures who might want to smash them, Maybe I need thorns to grow on me.
Just trying to reach the front door seems an impossibility. the garden had become overgrown to the point there the large and spiky thorns were liked bared teeth at the gate – stopping all intruders from entering. Had it been hat long since she’d been?
Tomé la copa que había encima de la mesa
El vino estaba aún caliente
De pronto resbaló de mis manos y su contenido se derramó sobre el mantel blanco
La mancha comenzó a crecer con rápidez
Pero cambió
Cambió y el mar de vino de pronto se convirtió en sangre
La sangre de los muertos
La sangre de mis víctimas
They said that jesus was the son of god and that he sacrificed his life for the human race. The pain he suffered was a testament to his greatness, but what about those who suffer and live? The ones whose hearts are ripped out from between their ribs and through their chest and leave them with a gaping whole inside, what about them? The survivors.
Every rose has its thorns,
And in this case,
I am the Rose.
You are the water poured
Into this vase
You chose.
I feel so alone in a love
That is so full,
But missing
Something to me from
Deep in your soul,
like bliss. Be
It knowledge or understanding,
Or something
Else strange.
My red pedal needs a landing
Where birds sing
For a change.
Sometimes people are stung by a thorn that no one else can really understand. Like a lion, they’ve got the thorn stuck in the paw but that you can’t by their mouse and remove the thorn. It’s unfortunate but the only course is to wait until they find someone else who can agree with them and soothe their opinion.
I sat there in silence for a second. My mouth too dry for words to be produced. ‘God, I need to sit down’ I said in my head. I always seem to speak to myself silently when I’m in this time of the high. I sat on the cold floor, feeling thorns in my head. Time to sleep, it was time to crawl in bed and sleep. That wasn’t going to happen though. Everyone had other plans, it was time to leave.
There were thorns growing out of his head instead of horns. Bristly, tipped red and angry. They snagged onto the leaves of low trees and sent shrieking branches toppling down into the dirt. He made no move to trim them.
He could have used a fine soil and seed, a little fresh water, to kill the thorns and have irises or petunias grow from his crown instead. Instead, he sat on a rock and waited for the thorns to grow from all parts of him. He waited for them to choke him.
The thorns scraped his side, and Felix stopped short, collapsing into the bushes. He took a deep breath, putting his head in his hands. He was an heir. They were out to get HIM. That’s what Zephyr wanted, not Emilia, not Kelsi, not Dewey, but HIM.
Something caught his eye – a tiny trapdoor covered with thorns. Narrowing his eyes, Felix leaned forward to investigate.
the other day in halfiax , nova scotia I walked the wrong way to the parking garage and through a door yard, and there were thorn bushes every where along the rock wall, I walked through them any way, saying ouch the entire time, so did my friends,…why do we do things that kind of hurt us?
“Have we reached our destination?” His companion inquired. Archer looked up, and stopped short. In front of him was a towering, incognizable wall made up of vines covered in prickly thorns, woven in between other weeds and plants bearing poisonous flowers. The wall possesed a riot of hues; blood red, firey orange, midnight blues, all peeking out like tiny spotlights between the unending greens. Archer’s partner had begun to back away, taking small fragile steps. “Perhaps it… it would be best to…” He stumbled over his words. “No, I’ve come this far, it would be foolish to turn away now.” Archer replied. “You’ll likely risk your life by trying to penetrate this wall.” The other man reasoned. “Surely you have heard the tales,” Archer said almost wistfully, the hint of a smile brushing his lips. “They say that the wall is nearly impossible to pass, but on the other side waits a beautiful maiden, nearly as unreachable after the wall than before it,” He chuckled. His friend stared at him in bewilderement. “How so?” “She sleeps, still as death.” Archer said simply. “How will she wake?” The other man questioned, drawn ever so slightly into the tale. “A kiss,” returned Archer. Then he drew his sword, and set about the task before him.
Looking at him, she felt like thorns were pricking into every inch of her being. He looked so happy; so nonchalant. As if this whole time, they never experienced any sort of love. That this was all just a game he played; oh how he did play her well. A tear slipped down her cheek. It tickled, soothing any pain in its path.
they were pricking his side as he walked through the marsh. Thorns everywhere, creating bloody spots on his clothing. A marsh fly buzzed by his ear. BZz bzzz BZzZZZZZZ! it sounded as though it were taunting him, maybe it knew how to proceed.
I was once attacked by thorns. They were sharp, bristly, brown, and ugly. They stared menacingly up at me from the ground, so small yet so powerful. At my five and a half feet, I should have been much stronger than they.
But instead, they attacked. As my foot fell upon them, they bristled with anger, with strength and ferocity and pierced the underside of my foot as hard as they could.
This is all that I think as I stumble through the bushes, hot blood streaking through my jeans, my shirt, and even showing trails on my warm, pink cheeks. I’m sweating, panting from running. The thorns were a challenge, but a challenge that I could defeat.
The thorns in my side are killing me. I wish these people would leave me alone. Don’t they understand I can make it on my own. Oh me oh my. My life, their life, life is life.
He had given her roses, because he knew they would make her happy. He was right, because when he handed them to her, her smile lit up the whole room. And this smile was real.
When she got home and started putting the roses in a vase, she pricked herself. The thorns had not been removed.
She watched the blood trickle down her finger and she wondered why it felt good.
they draw blood, hurt from the red and white roses bushes. My very first attempt at growing this year. They are beautiful, tall, long stem and gorgeous on my table.
Thorns hurt a lot they placed them on Jesus’ head and he bled as he had thorns on his head and a cross on his back. the least they could do was leave the roses on the crown of thorns they placed on his head, it would have been courteous.
All of a sudden I was sinking in a thorn bush. Feelings all around me, they rushed through me like waves at sea. I didn’t know what was going on but I felt the weight of the world around me, and the sinking feeling in my chest.
They drip from you like blood, and you fight with them. I can see it in your eyes. Don’t hide from me, because I can save you. I can cup your beauty in the palm of my hand, and I can hold you until it doesn’t hurt so much just to live. This tangled web we weave, stop moving, let the blood clot. You don’t have to hurt anymore. I’m here.
She skips along the path, kicking up dirt along the way. Her hands sway back and forth, occasionally scraping along the thorns that protrude from the bushes lining her trail, but she doesn’t mind.
Thorns
Fairytales
Crown of…
Lion’s paw
Why do so many fairytales and children’s stories involve thorns? They’re not deadly. (Unless you’re a hemophiliac.) I’d have thought there were more dangerous natural phenomena that could have been common themes in literature, rather than thorns. I guess thorns were a big problem “once upon a time.”
The thorns stuck into my side. I tried taking them out one by one. Each one brings a small droplet of blood. Oozing down my abdomen, I tried to keep the red drink inside. It was mine. All mine and you will not take it again. Not again.
you could wear a crown of thorns but that’s hardly original, is it? instead, try this ring, this bracelet, this necklace. do you wear anklets, too? or are those out of fashion?
it’s a fashion statement, believe me, it’ll be all the rage this season. prickly handbags, dresses made of angry roses, just you wait, YSL’s fall collection is going to be all about it.
Thorns seemed to have climbed up the gateway over the time I was away. It would be difficult to get rid of these pesky plants since this house has not been cared for for an entire year.
The thorns were the bloody bane of the field of flowers, tugging on uniforms of wary travelers until they became so fed up that they lit torches and burnt the field down and then salted the smoldering earth. All because of the thorns did this field die…
Thorns grow everywhere. There’s honestly no point to them; at least, not as far as humans are concerned. Nature developed them to protect plants in their natural habitat. It seems like a great cosmic joke that nature also developed not-real thorns; thorns that are capable of stinging without a physical manifestation. Words can be used as thorns. So can self-doubt.
Thorns can be long and sharp but they can also be tiny and sharp. They protect the roses but they hurt my hands, I don’t think they are pretty and they don’t seem to protect the roses from little tiny bugs. They only protect from large creatures who might want to smash them, Maybe I need thorns to grow on me.
I’ve never asked a girl to a dance. It’s pretty pathetic, considering the fact that I’m nearing the second semester of my high school senior year.
I don;t know what stops me, but I have this inherent break, some sort of mechanical disinclination to intimate commitment.
I’ve never felt the thorns of a rose, but I’ve experienced the sharp pangs of loneliness.
Just trying to reach the front door seems an impossibility. the garden had become overgrown to the point there the large and spiky thorns were liked bared teeth at the gate – stopping all intruders from entering. Had it been hat long since she’d been?
Tomé la copa que había encima de la mesa
El vino estaba aún caliente
De pronto resbaló de mis manos y su contenido se derramó sobre el mantel blanco
La mancha comenzó a crecer con rápidez
Pero cambió
Cambió y el mar de vino de pronto se convirtió en sangre
La sangre de los muertos
La sangre de mis víctimas
My grandmother has become a thorn in my mother’s side.
prickily, painful.
the thorns that pierced Jesus when he went to the cross
They said that jesus was the son of god and that he sacrificed his life for the human race. The pain he suffered was a testament to his greatness, but what about those who suffer and live? The ones whose hearts are ripped out from between their ribs and through their chest and leave them with a gaping whole inside, what about them? The survivors.
thorns tightened around my shapeless waist,
my toneless thighs, my flabby arms,
my giant calves, my floppy bottom,
and threatened to not let go.
not until i was perfect.
Every rose has its thorns,
And in this case,
I am the Rose.
You are the water poured
Into this vase
You chose.
I feel so alone in a love
That is so full,
But missing
Something to me from
Deep in your soul,
like bliss. Be
It knowledge or understanding,
Or something
Else strange.
My red pedal needs a landing
Where birds sing
For a change.
Sometimes people are stung by a thorn that no one else can really understand. Like a lion, they’ve got the thorn stuck in the paw but that you can’t by their mouse and remove the thorn. It’s unfortunate but the only course is to wait until they find someone else who can agree with them and soothe their opinion.
Every rose has its thorns,
and in this case,
I am the Rose.
You are the water poured
into this vase
you chose.
I feel so alone in a
I sat there in silence for a second. My mouth too dry for words to be produced. ‘God, I need to sit down’ I said in my head. I always seem to speak to myself silently when I’m in this time of the high. I sat on the cold floor, feeling thorns in my head. Time to sleep, it was time to crawl in bed and sleep. That wasn’t going to happen though. Everyone had other plans, it was time to leave.
There were thorns growing out of his head instead of horns. Bristly, tipped red and angry. They snagged onto the leaves of low trees and sent shrieking branches toppling down into the dirt. He made no move to trim them.
He could have used a fine soil and seed, a little fresh water, to kill the thorns and have irises or petunias grow from his crown instead. Instead, he sat on a rock and waited for the thorns to grow from all parts of him. He waited for them to choke him.
Jesus? No. Roses, pain but beauty. Obstacle to a smooth path. Horns?
Thorns stick in my side. This pain lasts just way too long. Years and years , everlasting and never healing.
The thorns scraped his side, and Felix stopped short, collapsing into the bushes. He took a deep breath, putting his head in his hands. He was an heir. They were out to get HIM. That’s what Zephyr wanted, not Emilia, not Kelsi, not Dewey, but HIM.
Something caught his eye – a tiny trapdoor covered with thorns. Narrowing his eyes, Felix leaned forward to investigate.
the other day in halfiax , nova scotia I walked the wrong way to the parking garage and through a door yard, and there were thorn bushes every where along the rock wall, I walked through them any way, saying ouch the entire time, so did my friends,…why do we do things that kind of hurt us?
“Have we reached our destination?” His companion inquired. Archer looked up, and stopped short. In front of him was a towering, incognizable wall made up of vines covered in prickly thorns, woven in between other weeds and plants bearing poisonous flowers. The wall possesed a riot of hues; blood red, firey orange, midnight blues, all peeking out like tiny spotlights between the unending greens. Archer’s partner had begun to back away, taking small fragile steps. “Perhaps it… it would be best to…” He stumbled over his words. “No, I’ve come this far, it would be foolish to turn away now.” Archer replied. “You’ll likely risk your life by trying to penetrate this wall.” The other man reasoned. “Surely you have heard the tales,” Archer said almost wistfully, the hint of a smile brushing his lips. “They say that the wall is nearly impossible to pass, but on the other side waits a beautiful maiden, nearly as unreachable after the wall than before it,” He chuckled. His friend stared at him in bewilderement. “How so?” “She sleeps, still as death.” Archer said simply. “How will she wake?” The other man questioned, drawn ever so slightly into the tale. “A kiss,” returned Archer. Then he drew his sword, and set about the task before him.
the thorns in my side how they burn how they sting… like life they are but without the pain the sting the cuts life would be boring as fuck.
Like a thorn in my side,
you wont go away.
The liquor is warm
and keeps the flies at bay.
Plain as it might be,
this smile on my face.
I am so happy to
have seen you
fall from grace.
Looking at him, she felt like thorns were pricking into every inch of her being. He looked so happy; so nonchalant. As if this whole time, they never experienced any sort of love. That this was all just a game he played; oh how he did play her well. A tear slipped down her cheek. It tickled, soothing any pain in its path.
You were the most beautiful rose with the most vicious thorns but, I picked you anyway and I had myself bleed.
Thorns are pointy and poky. I don’t like thorns. Jesus had a crown of thorns. Some peoples last name is ‘Thorne’.
they were pricking his side as he walked through the marsh. Thorns everywhere, creating bloody spots on his clothing. A marsh fly buzzed by his ear. BZz bzzz BZzZZZZZZ! it sounded as though it were taunting him, maybe it knew how to proceed.
I was once attacked by thorns. They were sharp, bristly, brown, and ugly. They stared menacingly up at me from the ground, so small yet so powerful. At my five and a half feet, I should have been much stronger than they.
But instead, they attacked. As my foot fell upon them, they bristled with anger, with strength and ferocity and pierced the underside of my foot as hard as they could.
You can complain because roses have thorns, or you can rejoice because thorns have roses.
Think about it.
I hate these thorns.
This is all that I think as I stumble through the bushes, hot blood streaking through my jeans, my shirt, and even showing trails on my warm, pink cheeks. I’m sweating, panting from running. The thorns were a challenge, but a challenge that I could defeat.
The thorns in my side are killing me. I wish these people would leave me alone. Don’t they understand I can make it on my own. Oh me oh my. My life, their life, life is life.