The rose with the sharpest thorns

so of course I’d have to find it

and somehow think that all I’d need

is a good pair of gloves and a pruning shear

So here I am out in the hot sun

I think they call this gardening

Feels a lot like sacrifice

this must be what hell is made of

The sweat pours down my face

My fingers are a mess of holes

Somewhere there’s a flower here

that would look beautiful on my mantle

But at this rate I’ll never get

to pick it before the bloom wilts

and I’m left with nothing

but scars and a blocked pathway

as the branches grow unkempt and wild

I’m at the mercy of the plant