Every rose has its thorns. No one is perfect.
Embrace your flaws and don’t be afraid to stand out.
Because someone out there is dying to meet someone like you.
you punctured me. the words were sharp, but the look from those eyes was sharper. i never forgot that moment; that tone; your face – thorns constantly stuck in the side of my consciousness. i’d say i’m sorry for whatever i did to garner it all, but honestly…isn’t that your job?
Thorns are pain
Piercing through your fingers, your sides.
Bleeding.
Yet, they can act as a ladder.
Growing ever so slowly into the sky.
Letting you climb, one rung at a time.
Because you are so little in this big world.
He could not catch his breath. He lay there, in the thorns, unable to move, unwilling to move, lest she be captured again. He would die for her. He would take these thorns, these barbs, and wrap them around his heart if that meant she could live. God willing.
As she stared at the stars, her delicate fingers traced the rose and its thorns. She often wonders how something so beautiful could be so painful, just as he wondered about her.
absolutely and undeniably dangerous. threatening but incredibly seductive, entrancing. perfect in their silhouette and stirring in color. there’s a picture on my wall that turned out exactly as i saw it in my head. irresistible. each shade, crevice, all things identifying – clearly defined. its poison clear. its body tentacle – like in an explicit showmanship of its ability to draw you in. it’s a flower – if one would call it that – exhibiting the creatures that so boldly strut just at arms reach, right under your impressionable little nose. monsters, demons, ghosts, elves, peter pans, and gypsies. could be any one with a motive in life. any one who is needy and selfish. and we admire them because they are our alter egos. they have what we dont and what we want. but at what cost?
The thorns hurt. How did I get stuck here? I ripped them off my jeans and kept reaching, reaching. I had to get more blackberries before nightfall. These keep us nourished throughout the winter and soon there would be no more. Nights getting colder, food more scarce. Feeling the chill I kept on. Why did I stay in this place? Because I was needed? Because he could not look after himself? If I dropped this bucket, and started out in the morning, he would have to look after himself. The thorns kept stabbing, ripping, bringing me back into the present. Hands cold, I thought again. Could I leave? Could I reach for more? More than berries that rewarded me with pain?
they snagged on her gown as she attempted to flee the retched night that had gone horribly wrong, they worked with the enemy to ensure she would not escape this town, piercing her satin embroidery and tearing at the draped silk, hooking into her flesh softer than a rose’s petal. she gasped as pain struck her and little rivers of blood streamed down her skin
The causative factor for the pain I feel
Housed by your callous sting
Or rather gripping indifference
Really makes for one hell of a father
Never thought I’d lose trust in you
Sadly, you don’t even know about your
I drew back,not wanting to go any closer to him. He wasn’t mean, he was nice. He was a rose, but like a rose, he was surrounded my thorns. I wasn’t willing to go past those, bring back the hurtful memories and painful times. I wanted to stay away. I was guarding myself from anguish, but I was also distancing myself from beauty.
Jesus once said the parable, including the part of the farmer who placed the seeds on thorns. I wonder if the seeds fell for the seduction of the thorns, hoping to find scarlet at the end of their branches?
Yet all they received was a firm grip on their necks.
“Fine,” she screamed, storming out the door to the backyard, slamming it behind her. She stood there a moment, breathing heavily, feeling as if she would burst with anger. Then, she saw it. Admiring the exquisite rosebush, she took both her trembling hands and grasped the thicket of thorns tightly. She held her grasp firmly for 30 seconds and when she released, her hands were full of perfect red polka dots. She felt no pain, only immense relief.
He carried the heavy wooden cross. Heaving it up on his shoulder and stumbling as he did. The sharp little thorns on his crown of shame stabbed into his head. He was starting to take in short, sharp breaths. Blood and sweat ran into his eyes and blinded him. That was when he took his first fall. His knees smashed againsed the ground with a loud smack. He could not do this alone, but he stood up slowely to try again.
the thorns pricked her as she threw out what was left of the dead roses he had given her. they we tucked gently away in what she called the boyfriend box. everything was in there. it had been over a year since the break up and she was still adding things from the dates they had gone on since the break up. finally she realized it was time to get over him and move on, pray to god that she got her period and put him in the past. she didn’t hate him for all the hurt he caused upon her, she wasn’t angry. she knew what they once had was finish and gone beyond repair. she no longer had the will to fight, if he didn’t care, she didn’t care. she could move on quietly and fix her life to the point where she could be happy as she once was. it was a new year for her, she had dropped a few pounds, made some new friends and day by day she was gaining what she alled her old life and her self esteem back without running away to canada every chance she got.
As she touched the rose, the thorns pricked her skin.
Blood dripped down her wrist and settled to the floor.
But she just stood there, staring into space.
Only when she started to roll around the rose in her hand did she come back to earth.
I’ve memorized this field my whole life. Every flower, every tree, every rock to the last blade of grass, to the thorns on the rose bushes. I’ve found hiding places in the bushes to hide away from Mama when she’s crossed. I’ve found ways to keep from pricking myself on the thorns. Though on some occasions, new thorns have sprouted without my notice. Mama has tried to have the gardens trimmed to the point where i can’t hide anywhere. but has failed unwillingly.
“Out!” Mama yells, “Out you stupid little brat!” Tears are streaming down my face and i can hardly breathe. Shards of glass are scattered across the newly polished ballroom floor. I run out the doors to the courtyard. the butler opening all the doors before i can crash. the cold outside air rushing at my face cooling the fire inside of me. i run down the flight of steps, not lifting my lavish, almost half a million dress. i can just see the opening of a hiding place i call The Bear’s Cave, i rush in and plop myself in the soft moss. Mama will skin me alive when she see’s my dress i think. i lean back avoiding the a line of thorns when i feel a prick on my arm. Just what i need a new thorn.
He had fallen into a patch of some sort of thorny plant. Luckily he had on long sleeves and pants, and was able to remove himself from the entanglement relatively easily, and without much harm done. He had only a few scratches on his hands, and they were shallow. Still, his hands felt strangely “pins and needles”, and he had to shake them to make them feel normal again.
The thorns brushed against my skin, pricking my arms as I pushed through the bushes. The t-shirts and shorts I’d chosen that morning were proving to not be the best attire for manoeuvring through the dense scrub. But when I eventually made my way through the thorny bushes, I was witness to the most amazing view. And it was worth it.
roses have thorns on them. I received roses for my prefomances in nutcracker. I’ve thought of thorns when watching sleeping beauty. I loved that movie when I was little. Same with cinderella. I can’t wait for dance to start to up again. We’ve been out due too winter break :(
“Every rose has its thorn” was the song thah Adam could hear in the radio just after he went to Rosy’s. It was odd that the song played right then, but hey, of this coincidences the life is made.
thorns are evil i feel like thorns have a symbol of evil that if anyone have thorns or is affiliated with thorns they are probably not a good person. but roses have thorns and roses are lovely so maybe roses are good and evil a little bit of both
have with thee. not at thee you may go against the rain. ou may be a train. you may stay on track like you are choo chooing an owl was hooing the night away and GASP! i didn’t stop you didn’t stop we should’ve stopped why didn’t we stop we kept going into the bushes where the thorns are. it was good. really good. i know.
Thorns are exploding across my forearm as I type this. Brittle, bitter, and dull. As if someone were stabbing my wrist, but more… dull, like hammer blows. The bruises are thorny, giant stripy patches of green and yellow across most of the front of my wrist and a big purply red blotch on the back of my arm. Pain thorns are not red, or black, or bright lights as people say. Black is soft and comforting. Red is vicious and elusive. Light, light is too bright to be thorny pain. This is a purpling brown, with green, like my wrist. It aches and tears at you, but it’s never elusive. Before you even call, the pain is there, brown muddy mucky blows at your flesh.
The rose is perfect. A deep, romantic red with a green stem that is the prettiest shade I’ve ever seen. He holds it out to me, smiling. I take it, smiling back, then gasp, taking my hand away.
A thorn has pricked me, a tiny dot of blood already starting to come out of the wound. My eyes meet his worriedly.
i pushed through the pointy thorns. Bloody splattered on my clothes and the pain filled me. All the sudden i fainted. I woke up and it was all a dream.
Jesus, the LORD, the Christ, who is the worthy heir the the thrown in heaven, wore a crown of thorns and was burdened with my sin when I did not deserve it.
The thorns pricked her finger while she picked more of the roses. She’d never seen black roses growing wildly before and couldn’t pass on the opportunity to take some. This was the first good thing that happened since she got lost in the forest.
Every rose has its thorns. No one is perfect.
Embrace your flaws and don’t be afraid to stand out.
Because someone out there is dying to meet someone like you.
I like thorns.
you punctured me. the words were sharp, but the look from those eyes was sharper. i never forgot that moment; that tone; your face – thorns constantly stuck in the side of my consciousness. i’d say i’m sorry for whatever i did to garner it all, but honestly…isn’t that your job?
Thorns are pain
Piercing through your fingers, your sides.
Bleeding.
Yet, they can act as a ladder.
Growing ever so slowly into the sky.
Letting you climb, one rung at a time.
Because you are so little in this big world.
He could not catch his breath. He lay there, in the thorns, unable to move, unwilling to move, lest she be captured again. He would die for her. He would take these thorns, these barbs, and wrap them around his heart if that meant she could live. God willing.
thorns hurt when you touch them. They are on roses. They are elegantly placed on the most beautiful of flowers to protect them.
As she stared at the stars, her delicate fingers traced the rose and its thorns. She often wonders how something so beautiful could be so painful, just as he wondered about her.
หนามเป็นสิ่งที่เกี่ยวข้องกับความรู้สึกกลัว ความว่างเปล่า อะไรบางอย่างที่ทิ่มอยู่ในเนื้อแล้วเอาออกไม่ได้ แต่ในขณะเดียวกันหนามก็ทำให้รู้สึกว่ามีการปกป้อง คนบางคนก็มีหนามเพื่อคนอื่นจะได้ไม่เข้ามา หนามจึงเป็นสิ่งสำคัญอย่างหนึ่งเหมือนกัน และหนามก็ทำให้รู้สึกว่ามันแหลม ความแหลมแต่ว่าสั้น แต่ไม่ยาวเหมือนดาบ หนามจึงให้ความรู้สึกว่าชั่วร้ายนิด ๆ เพราะซ่อนเอาไว้ได้เหมือนเข็ม แต่ให้ความรู้สึกน่ากลัว
absolutely and undeniably dangerous. threatening but incredibly seductive, entrancing. perfect in their silhouette and stirring in color. there’s a picture on my wall that turned out exactly as i saw it in my head. irresistible. each shade, crevice, all things identifying – clearly defined. its poison clear. its body tentacle – like in an explicit showmanship of its ability to draw you in. it’s a flower – if one would call it that – exhibiting the creatures that so boldly strut just at arms reach, right under your impressionable little nose. monsters, demons, ghosts, elves, peter pans, and gypsies. could be any one with a motive in life. any one who is needy and selfish. and we admire them because they are our alter egos. they have what we dont and what we want. but at what cost?
The thorns hurt. How did I get stuck here? I ripped them off my jeans and kept reaching, reaching. I had to get more blackberries before nightfall. These keep us nourished throughout the winter and soon there would be no more. Nights getting colder, food more scarce. Feeling the chill I kept on. Why did I stay in this place? Because I was needed? Because he could not look after himself? If I dropped this bucket, and started out in the morning, he would have to look after himself. The thorns kept stabbing, ripping, bringing me back into the present. Hands cold, I thought again. Could I leave? Could I reach for more? More than berries that rewarded me with pain?
they snagged on her gown as she attempted to flee the retched night that had gone horribly wrong, they worked with the enemy to ensure she would not escape this town, piercing her satin embroidery and tearing at the draped silk, hooking into her flesh softer than a rose’s petal. she gasped as pain struck her and little rivers of blood streamed down her skin
they prick me. they make me feel irritated . i dont like them. they are sharp. found on trees.
The causative factor for the pain I feel
Housed by your callous sting
Or rather gripping indifference
Really makes for one hell of a father
Never thought I’d lose trust in you
Sadly, you don’t even know about your
Thorns you’ve got tucked away.
I drew back,not wanting to go any closer to him. He wasn’t mean, he was nice. He was a rose, but like a rose, he was surrounded my thorns. I wasn’t willing to go past those, bring back the hurtful memories and painful times. I wanted to stay away. I was guarding myself from anguish, but I was also distancing myself from beauty.
Jesus once said the parable, including the part of the farmer who placed the seeds on thorns. I wonder if the seeds fell for the seduction of the thorns, hoping to find scarlet at the end of their branches?
Yet all they received was a firm grip on their necks.
“Fine,” she screamed, storming out the door to the backyard, slamming it behind her. She stood there a moment, breathing heavily, feeling as if she would burst with anger. Then, she saw it. Admiring the exquisite rosebush, she took both her trembling hands and grasped the thicket of thorns tightly. She held her grasp firmly for 30 seconds and when she released, her hands were full of perfect red polka dots. She felt no pain, only immense relief.
He carried the heavy wooden cross. Heaving it up on his shoulder and stumbling as he did. The sharp little thorns on his crown of shame stabbed into his head. He was starting to take in short, sharp breaths. Blood and sweat ran into his eyes and blinded him. That was when he took his first fall. His knees smashed againsed the ground with a loud smack. He could not do this alone, but he stood up slowely to try again.
on even the prettiest of roses- a reminder than even the most beautiful things are imperfect.
the thorns pricked her as she threw out what was left of the dead roses he had given her. they we tucked gently away in what she called the boyfriend box. everything was in there. it had been over a year since the break up and she was still adding things from the dates they had gone on since the break up. finally she realized it was time to get over him and move on, pray to god that she got her period and put him in the past. she didn’t hate him for all the hurt he caused upon her, she wasn’t angry. she knew what they once had was finish and gone beyond repair. she no longer had the will to fight, if he didn’t care, she didn’t care. she could move on quietly and fix her life to the point where she could be happy as she once was. it was a new year for her, she had dropped a few pounds, made some new friends and day by day she was gaining what she alled her old life and her self esteem back without running away to canada every chance she got.
As she touched the rose, the thorns pricked her skin.
Blood dripped down her wrist and settled to the floor.
But she just stood there, staring into space.
Only when she started to roll around the rose in her hand did she come back to earth.
I’ve memorized this field my whole life. Every flower, every tree, every rock to the last blade of grass, to the thorns on the rose bushes. I’ve found hiding places in the bushes to hide away from Mama when she’s crossed. I’ve found ways to keep from pricking myself on the thorns. Though on some occasions, new thorns have sprouted without my notice. Mama has tried to have the gardens trimmed to the point where i can’t hide anywhere. but has failed unwillingly.
“Out!” Mama yells, “Out you stupid little brat!” Tears are streaming down my face and i can hardly breathe. Shards of glass are scattered across the newly polished ballroom floor. I run out the doors to the courtyard. the butler opening all the doors before i can crash. the cold outside air rushing at my face cooling the fire inside of me. i run down the flight of steps, not lifting my lavish, almost half a million dress. i can just see the opening of a hiding place i call The Bear’s Cave, i rush in and plop myself in the soft moss. Mama will skin me alive when she see’s my dress i think. i lean back avoiding the a line of thorns when i feel a prick on my arm. Just what i need a new thorn.
“Shit!” He tore the thorns that were hooked into his skin. They clung stubbornly to his skin ignoring his protests like insolent children.
thorns are on roses. Roses are beautiful. Thorns are also painful. What an awful problem. Perhaps true beauty can’t happen without pain?
He had fallen into a patch of some sort of thorny plant. Luckily he had on long sleeves and pants, and was able to remove himself from the entanglement relatively easily, and without much harm done. He had only a few scratches on his hands, and they were shallow. Still, his hands felt strangely “pins and needles”, and he had to shake them to make them feel normal again.
I snip them off so they want prick my fingers. The roses are lovely, reaching forward I smell the sweet fragrance, ouch I missed one.
The thorns brushed against my skin, pricking my arms as I pushed through the bushes. The t-shirts and shorts I’d chosen that morning were proving to not be the best attire for manoeuvring through the dense scrub. But when I eventually made my way through the thorny bushes, I was witness to the most amazing view. And it was worth it.
roses have thorns on them. I received roses for my prefomances in nutcracker. I’ve thought of thorns when watching sleeping beauty. I loved that movie when I was little. Same with cinderella. I can’t wait for dance to start to up again. We’ve been out due too winter break :(
roses path road life friends enimies bush tree leaves leaf
“Every rose has its thorn” was the song thah Adam could hear in the radio just after he went to Rosy’s. It was odd that the song played right then, but hey, of this coincidences the life is made.
thorns are evil i feel like thorns have a symbol of evil that if anyone have thorns or is affiliated with thorns they are probably not a good person. but roses have thorns and roses are lovely so maybe roses are good and evil a little bit of both
Love is a rosebush. You’ll come across a bunch of thorns, but you’ve gotta keep looking til you find the rose.
These thorns have become apart of me now.
They have dug so deep into my skin that they are now imbeded.
I wish i could get close to you,
but if i do, im afraid that the thorns will puncture you too.
have with thee. not at thee you may go against the rain. ou may be a train. you may stay on track like you are choo chooing an owl was hooing the night away and GASP! i didn’t stop you didn’t stop we should’ve stopped why didn’t we stop we kept going into the bushes where the thorns are. it was good. really good. i know.
Thorns are exploding across my forearm as I type this. Brittle, bitter, and dull. As if someone were stabbing my wrist, but more… dull, like hammer blows. The bruises are thorny, giant stripy patches of green and yellow across most of the front of my wrist and a big purply red blotch on the back of my arm. Pain thorns are not red, or black, or bright lights as people say. Black is soft and comforting. Red is vicious and elusive. Light, light is too bright to be thorny pain. This is a purpling brown, with green, like my wrist. It aches and tears at you, but it’s never elusive. Before you even call, the pain is there, brown muddy mucky blows at your flesh.
The rose is perfect. A deep, romantic red with a green stem that is the prettiest shade I’ve ever seen. He holds it out to me, smiling. I take it, smiling back, then gasp, taking my hand away.
A thorn has pricked me, a tiny dot of blood already starting to come out of the wound. My eyes meet his worriedly.
i pushed through the pointy thorns. Bloody splattered on my clothes and the pain filled me. All the sudden i fainted. I woke up and it was all a dream.
The thorns are like the cactus fingers, Deadly fingers that pierce your skin and infect it.
Jesus, the LORD, the Christ, who is the worthy heir the the thrown in heaven, wore a crown of thorns and was burdened with my sin when I did not deserve it.
sharp curved dangerous brown blackberry rose prick hurt ouch cut blood drop bleed shark fin hard mean prickle
The thorns pricked her finger while she picked more of the roses. She’d never seen black roses growing wildly before and couldn’t pass on the opportunity to take some. This was the first good thing that happened since she got lost in the forest.