The layers of thorns that had been filled with venom of vile words spoken,
and to the poison that struck me down with actions that could only described
as scars left onto my fragile state, and to have me tied down to the ground. . .
Where this budding rose never could see enough of the light of rays from the sun
to blossom into something much more than what it already was. . .
It was the gardener who cut the branches away, revealing the flower.