The poems of thorns

My Prick Fingers

i prick my fingers 

on the thorns of the pretty bright roses growing in the garden

the garden that holds so much tenderness

the tenderness like a mothers warm hug 

so i will be okay with my prick finger 

for the drip of my blood is worth 

the beauty i see in this rose 

i shall call it my best self 

the part to me i do not judge 

i dont analuze the perfect petals 

and i see the the thorns as my protection 

for the garden is my soul and how i belive 

my soul holds all my real beauty 

and i lay there in my mothers embrace as she strokes my hair 

so i shall mpeirce my flesh just for the peace of my beauty