“Show me your thorns and I’ll show you hands willing to bleed”

The need to be loved
The desire for happiness
The addiction to roses that only causes injury.
The thirst for validation
The will to achieve
The dreams of the past
Left as eternal inquiries.

Show me your thorns the beauty and reality of your rose,
Show me the parts of you nobody else knows.
Hands willing to bleed,
A soul that’s in need,
A desparation so strong such little in me to believe.
To believe I’ll be happy
To believe I’ll have relief
So now I’m sat here crying tears of red writing away my grief.
They leak from my hands
With every drop apart of me leaves,
The haunting question of why was it me.
Why was it me?
Why was I chosen?
Why must I drink from a glass clearly poisoned.
The attraction,
The danger,
The love for the thrill,
Maybe the hope for redemption.
That’d be my castle on the hill.

My Roman Empire,
The castle that falls,
The artistry of a structure so fragile yet so lovely.
The pain that’s caused,
The blood that falls,
With every drop another thorn draws,
It stabs deeper and deeper, ripping away what’s left,
A shell of myself, a lifeless husk,
The blood drained from my castle the walls I’ve built tumble.
Yet I scream, falling apart,
Show me your thorns, to see hands that bled.

~ Soundz
© Soundz