the minute she walked away i felt as if a thorn has just been stabbed in my heart. why did she leave me? that i cant answer. all i know is that when i have the chance i will fix it!
Prickly and painful, she reveals her stickers despite his coaxing otherwise. She can’t really help it. It’s who she is. Hiding it is against her religion, her personal mantras of “be yourself. be yourself.” getting the best of her. Every damn time. But this one seems to handle it well, never retracting at her sometimes stinging advances. She’s been called “too forward” in the past, but that was the past.
Die Hörner saßen bei ihm mitten im Gesicht. Eigentlich hätten sie auf dem Kopf sein müssen, wie bei jedem anderen normalen Teufel. Aber bei ihm war nichts normal. Auch der Schwanz saß an einer völlig falschen Stelle, nämlich da, wo eigentlich der Nabel sein sollte.
Every rose has it thorn, they say. Such a beautiful, delicate beauty of nature, with such piercing, hurtful thorns. People are like roses in a way. They draw you in with their outside beauty, and prick you with their hidden thorns.
THorns are sharp. They hurt when you get touched by them or if you slam your hand into them. You might get them stuck in your hands. You just need to get a pair of tweezers and pull them out. They are very helpful to rose bushes and acacia trees and cactuses. But cactuses sometimes the thorns don’t help too much. Thorns are awesome Caleb age 7
Its thorns were sticking up from the foot of snow surrounding it, and I couldn’t help but smile at the lone plant braving the freezing whether. I felt like my heart was the frozen water, trying to keep out everything in its path. Those thorns broke through in an attempt to break me–old friends I put behind me long ago. But the winter would win; nothing survives the dark, cold winter.
The rose bush called out in anxst. The sharpness cut through and halted all romance possibilities from coming nearer. Secluded in her despair, she resolved to bloom and share her beauty with the world despite the thorns surrounding her. Beauty and danger mingle.
The fact that something beautiful as a rose could cause so much pain and irritation is actually pretty rational. Essentially, there’s a limit to how perfect one thing can be.
A field of thorns wasn’t enough for you. You wanted more, like the spoilt person you are. So I got my revenge. Dragged you by your hair, through the field. A day you’ll never forget. You have the scars as reminders.
I was trapped.
if I told the truth I would hurt him, if I lied, it could be the biggest mistake of my life
I would be unhappy for years to come
I was surrounded by thorns, if I moved they hurt even more
and if I didn’t, they would seep deeper into my skin
thorns. they tear you down. your heart hurts when you touch one and they make you feel all yucky inside. ick. its like when charlie bites his brothers finger. OUCH CHARLIE. THAT REALLY HURTS. charlie in this case is a thorn.
thorns. hurt. they do. simple as that. they make blood come out of your finger or wherever they prick you. and it makes you cry. a lot. when i get pricked i cry at least. ouch. thorns. are painful.
She sat still. what the hell was she doing in the office of the District Attorney? Might as well be sitting on a bed of thorns. This is not the job she really wanted. It was the only job available.
ouch. that hurts. that hurt, charlie…haha, get it?!?!?!?!?!?! charlie bit me, bahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahaha. OUCH CHARLIE. charlie’s a thorn. ouch, charlie! you pricked my fingaaaaa. hahaha thorns hurt.
Thorns snagged her dress as she galloped through the woods. She knew if she turned around to find her attacker, she’d be done for. Never mind how torn her tragically expensive outfit was, this escape was crucial.
And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touched by the thorns…is that why he still is indifferent..is that why she still has to search for the love that is only her’s….she kept wondering these almost every time she is alone…the tear drops die on her cheeks…but still he is right…may be this is what is real…at least he is not faking love…after all the thorns should never be picked from the rose…isn’t it!!
Prickly little friends ache in my toe. They hold me back too and fro. Though bite they may they kiss so sweet. I’ve got the really sweaty feet you seek. Of course you may and of course you might. I’m quite scary in the mask of night. And that’s alright.
Yes, yes… That’s the word!! Thorns have been thrown on my face, today! Thorns which I knew they were coming all the way from the beginning. But I thought they would never hurt me like how they did today! And I cried like a baby, though I thought I would never cry. But the time has come to show some grieving!
John shook his head at the state of Sherlock’s trench coat. It had several rips in it, the hem was soaking wet, and there were burrs and thorns stuck in all along the sleeves. “It’ll take a tailor more talented than me to fix this, Sherlock,” John sighed, placing the near-ruined coat on the couch next to him. “The next time you think it’s absolutely necessary to go running through briars, remember that I’m only experienced in sewing sutures.”
The thorns, buried deep in his hands, were all she could see. “What did you do to yourself, Brody?”
“There was a bird, trapped in the thorny bushes. I had to rescue him, and I paid the price.”
“I’m not going to be able to remove these.”
“I know.” She sat down next to him, letting go of his hands. “You have to save everyone, don’t you?”
“I suppose,” he whispers, unable to look at her. “I’m not trying to seem ungrateful… but you have to think of yourself. Someday, you’re going to have to stop save everybody else. You’ll have to save yourself instead.”
“Just as long as I don’t have to choose myself over you, because that is the one thing I could never do.”
The silence that follows is warm, comfortable… they understand each other. Right now, anyway, that’s all that matters.
a sharp and insensible little creature that embeds itself in the most obnoxious places. It chooses most often to come at the most inconvenient moments and always draws from you a drop of pain.
It’s only natural for us to bleed. But to what extent do we force ourselves to endure such pain only to be sure that we are still capable of bleeding. We need to know what we are feeling is truly real and we are actually living. Since when did enflicting pain on our own bodies and the ones we are supposed to love become so overly endorsed? Blood should only be seen when nature tells us to see it. Blood should be bled by accident. The bleeding from my heart has been caused by the gaurdian I have wrapped around it for protection. Everything backfired and I only cause myself more pain when all I wanted was to avoid it. And unfortunately for some, I hurt others along the way.
Thorns are good friends of flowers. Without thorns the flowers would not have any meaning. It is the opposite enemy who brings about the competition and the competition will help individual to be more pron to making mistake and by correcting the mistake one become a better person.
I am just about to write about anything coming in my mind or doesn’t come. My mind is full sometimr whereas other time it is as empty as a blank page in front of a writer who does not know what to write.
rose bushes have both thorns and flowers, much like life, some people are thorns in my side, I truly need to think if I am to write about thorns, okay are my 60 seconds up yet, every rose has its thorn is that a song by Guns and Roses or some other group popular at that time
Hate ’em in my sock, those pesky thorns. Just walking out in the back yard would find them jumping up and hitching a ride on my anklets. I wore nylon socks way back then. The thorns were gruesome torturers who would not release their burrs without pulling thin threads of nylon with them.
thorns impale my fingers with every berry I grasp
thorns which leave my life’s essence to leak
to trickle down my flesh, painting my fingerprints a vibrant crimson
it brings me joy to see that stained flesh
Upon this bed lay his heart. The moment that no man should want to hear. The moment that epic high seems no longer worth it. And his stomach would crouch away from the bed, sinking ever deeper into the pit. But his hear it stuck, stabbed by the bed of thorns.
I run away, but they keep digging. Every singe barb my mother throws at me sticks, and stays, until it works its way free with the aid of time, soothing words, and her own forgiveness, until she sticks another handful back in. She needles me, getting the reactions she wants, sicking in another just as the last begins to heal. I don’t know who much longer I can take this.
Today’s word is thorns. Thorns are most well-known for growing on roses. That always seems oddly poetic because roses are so beautiful and lovely in contrast to the ugly, sharp, hateful thorny-ness that grows on their stems.
Thorns on roses. They prick and force blood out of my fingers. I grab the whole stem and feel the tiny knives pierce my palm. It doesn’t hurt, it just feels tingly. I let go, and the blood, as red at the rose at the top of the stem, runs down my hand.
the minute she walked away i felt as if a thorn has just been stabbed in my heart. why did she leave me? that i cant answer. all i know is that when i have the chance i will fix it!
Prickly and painful, she reveals her stickers despite his coaxing otherwise. She can’t really help it. It’s who she is. Hiding it is against her religion, her personal mantras of “be yourself. be yourself.” getting the best of her. Every damn time. But this one seems to handle it well, never retracting at her sometimes stinging advances. She’s been called “too forward” in the past, but that was the past.
Die Hörner saßen bei ihm mitten im Gesicht. Eigentlich hätten sie auf dem Kopf sein müssen, wie bei jedem anderen normalen Teufel. Aber bei ihm war nichts normal. Auch der Schwanz saß an einer völlig falschen Stelle, nämlich da, wo eigentlich der Nabel sein sollte.
horned stems buck wind and resist fingerprints
encourage scent not selection
flowers nod as you pass
for now equals
in that you are both alive
Every rose has it thorn, they say. Such a beautiful, delicate beauty of nature, with such piercing, hurtful thorns. People are like roses in a way. They draw you in with their outside beauty, and prick you with their hidden thorns.
THorns are sharp. They hurt when you get touched by them or if you slam your hand into them. You might get them stuck in your hands. You just need to get a pair of tweezers and pull them out. They are very helpful to rose bushes and acacia trees and cactuses. But cactuses sometimes the thorns don’t help too much. Thorns are awesome Caleb age 7
Its thorns were sticking up from the foot of snow surrounding it, and I couldn’t help but smile at the lone plant braving the freezing whether. I felt like my heart was the frozen water, trying to keep out everything in its path. Those thorns broke through in an attempt to break me–old friends I put behind me long ago. But the winter would win; nothing survives the dark, cold winter.
The rose bush called out in anxst. The sharpness cut through and halted all romance possibilities from coming nearer. Secluded in her despair, she resolved to bloom and share her beauty with the world despite the thorns surrounding her. Beauty and danger mingle.
The fact that something beautiful as a rose could cause so much pain and irritation is actually pretty rational. Essentially, there’s a limit to how perfect one thing can be.
A field of thorns wasn’t enough for you. You wanted more, like the spoilt person you are. So I got my revenge. Dragged you by your hair, through the field. A day you’ll never forget. You have the scars as reminders.
I was trapped.
if I told the truth I would hurt him, if I lied, it could be the biggest mistake of my life
I would be unhappy for years to come
I was surrounded by thorns, if I moved they hurt even more
and if I didn’t, they would seep deeper into my skin
If the hand that holds the petal
Rejects the pressure within
The stagnant leaf with its vein-stern grief
avoids gardener’s burning bin
thorns…i felt like i lived among thorns. but then, they are beginning to let me go.
thorns. they tear you down. your heart hurts when you touch one and they make you feel all yucky inside. ick. its like when charlie bites his brothers finger. OUCH CHARLIE. THAT REALLY HURTS. charlie in this case is a thorn.
thorns. hurt. they do. simple as that. they make blood come out of your finger or wherever they prick you. and it makes you cry. a lot. when i get pricked i cry at least. ouch. thorns. are painful.
She sat still. what the hell was she doing in the office of the District Attorney? Might as well be sitting on a bed of thorns. This is not the job she really wanted. It was the only job available.
ouch. that hurts. that hurt, charlie…haha, get it?!?!?!?!?!?! charlie bit me, bahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahaha. OUCH CHARLIE. charlie’s a thorn. ouch, charlie! you pricked my fingaaaaa. hahaha thorns hurt.
Thorns snagged her dress as she galloped through the woods. She knew if she turned around to find her attacker, she’d be done for. Never mind how torn her tragically expensive outfit was, this escape was crucial.
Poke a mind trickle, girth of fluid thought, petals of future.
And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touched by the thorns…is that why he still is indifferent..is that why she still has to search for the love that is only her’s….she kept wondering these almost every time she is alone…the tear drops die on her cheeks…but still he is right…may be this is what is real…at least he is not faking love…after all the thorns should never be picked from the rose…isn’t it!!
Prickly little friends ache in my toe. They hold me back too and fro. Though bite they may they kiss so sweet. I’ve got the really sweaty feet you seek. Of course you may and of course you might. I’m quite scary in the mask of night. And that’s alright.
Yes, yes… That’s the word!! Thorns have been thrown on my face, today! Thorns which I knew they were coming all the way from the beginning. But I thought they would never hurt me like how they did today! And I cried like a baby, though I thought I would never cry. But the time has come to show some grieving!
John shook his head at the state of Sherlock’s trench coat. It had several rips in it, the hem was soaking wet, and there were burrs and thorns stuck in all along the sleeves. “It’ll take a tailor more talented than me to fix this, Sherlock,” John sighed, placing the near-ruined coat on the couch next to him. “The next time you think it’s absolutely necessary to go running through briars, remember that I’m only experienced in sewing sutures.”
The thorns, buried deep in his hands, were all she could see. “What did you do to yourself, Brody?”
“There was a bird, trapped in the thorny bushes. I had to rescue him, and I paid the price.”
“I’m not going to be able to remove these.”
“I know.” She sat down next to him, letting go of his hands. “You have to save everyone, don’t you?”
“I suppose,” he whispers, unable to look at her. “I’m not trying to seem ungrateful… but you have to think of yourself. Someday, you’re going to have to stop save everybody else. You’ll have to save yourself instead.”
“Just as long as I don’t have to choose myself over you, because that is the one thing I could never do.”
The silence that follows is warm, comfortable… they understand each other. Right now, anyway, that’s all that matters.
a sharp and insensible little creature that embeds itself in the most obnoxious places. It chooses most often to come at the most inconvenient moments and always draws from you a drop of pain.
It’s only natural for us to bleed. But to what extent do we force ourselves to endure such pain only to be sure that we are still capable of bleeding. We need to know what we are feeling is truly real and we are actually living. Since when did enflicting pain on our own bodies and the ones we are supposed to love become so overly endorsed? Blood should only be seen when nature tells us to see it. Blood should be bled by accident. The bleeding from my heart has been caused by the gaurdian I have wrapped around it for protection. Everything backfired and I only cause myself more pain when all I wanted was to avoid it. And unfortunately for some, I hurt others along the way.
Thorns are good friends of flowers. Without thorns the flowers would not have any meaning. It is the opposite enemy who brings about the competition and the competition will help individual to be more pron to making mistake and by correcting the mistake one become a better person.
I am just about to write about anything coming in my mind or doesn’t come. My mind is full sometimr whereas other time it is as empty as a blank page in front of a writer who does not know what to write.
rose bushes have both thorns and flowers, much like life, some people are thorns in my side, I truly need to think if I am to write about thorns, okay are my 60 seconds up yet, every rose has its thorn is that a song by Guns and Roses or some other group popular at that time
Its what grown on plants.
Thorns
Hate ’em in my sock, those pesky thorns. Just walking out in the back yard would find them jumping up and hitching a ride on my anklets. I wore nylon socks way back then. The thorns were gruesome torturers who would not release their burrs without pulling thin threads of nylon with them.
Thorns round my head
Walk through the day
We all wear the crown
All walk the way
All have our thorns
All a proud king
Blood on our brows
Smiling sing
thorns impale my fingers with every berry I grasp
thorns which leave my life’s essence to leak
to trickle down my flesh, painting my fingerprints a vibrant crimson
it brings me joy to see that stained flesh
for it means I’m alive.
his crown adorned
of prickly stabbing
which numbed the
witches ever-laying at his side.
it was not for spite,
but for sins
for which each god died.
Upon this bed lay his heart. The moment that no man should want to hear. The moment that epic high seems no longer worth it. And his stomach would crouch away from the bed, sinking ever deeper into the pit. But his hear it stuck, stabbed by the bed of thorns.
I run away, but they keep digging. Every singe barb my mother throws at me sticks, and stays, until it works its way free with the aid of time, soothing words, and her own forgiveness, until she sticks another handful back in. She needles me, getting the reactions she wants, sicking in another just as the last begins to heal. I don’t know who much longer I can take this.
Struggling against the tugs. Seeping, oozing, stinging. He had to escape, he had to trudge away. He had to get out. Out of the thorns.
He had a mouth full of thorns and wore a crown of teeth. To this day, whenever dentists make love to horticulturalists, they cry out his name.
Today’s word is thorns. Thorns are most well-known for growing on roses. That always seems oddly poetic because roses are so beautiful and lovely in contrast to the ugly, sharp, hateful thorny-ness that grows on their stems.
Thorns on roses. They prick and force blood out of my fingers. I grab the whole stem and feel the tiny knives pierce my palm. It doesn’t hurt, it just feels tingly. I let go, and the blood, as red at the rose at the top of the stem, runs down my hand.