The Thorns

Mama, why do I hurt you the way I do?

My nasty vines grow into your beautiful blooms.

I create the weeds that grow in our garden,

You pick them out every year.

Mama, why do I make you cry so much?

When my vines are tangled,

And my petals fall,

Your tears water my roots.


Mama, I love you and I’m part of you-

But why is it when you start to wither away,

I must do the same?

Is that why I’m the bloom with vines

And your roots are so smooth?

Or did I create the vines on my own,

And you just try to help me make it through?



Mama, I know that winter's coming and this is your last year,

But please try to stay here.

My roots will never be as smooth as yours,

Its not me, but you that the ground adores.