Rosebush

I was sifting through my computer looking at all my old writings, when I stumbled across this old poem. Sure it's something begot of an angst ridden teenager, but I just couldn't help myself and laughed at the wit.

Anger seething; perhaps I loath the thought,

That you do not know the intention behind the act.

Words of judgment spilled out; too fast,

But you do not regret them.

They just lie there, hands stretched out; beckoning,

But I just stare; lost to irrationalism.

Brushing them aside, I let lose the suppressed emotion,

And for that, I am punished.

But I, am not the only one lost on the island of irrationality;

You too, express anger; for a cause unknown.

You look at a rosebush,

But all you see are thorns;

You fail to see the intricate patterns, on the beautiful smooth petals of a lone flower.

Likewise, you see the action,

But fail to see the cause, nor the intent. [no, you do not know. Nor do you care]

In doing so, you shred the piece of red velvet against the thorns.

Now, you are left with nothing more than a thornbrush;

Well done, you.