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ROSES OR THORNS
Some children get roses while others get thorns;
And they end up full of hate in a forest of scorn.
Feeling worthless and abandoned like a pile of dung.
And in their minds they someday may wish for a gun.
I see their faces in the mirror each night,
As they try to end this horrendous fright.
Groping hands, with their perpetrator so near.
No one around who could dry one tear.
Alone, and bewildered in their private hell.
Knowing that they were warned not to tell.
To end the misery so that they may have peace.
And the voices in their head can finally cease.
In case you are wondering whom these children are.
Some could live out of state and some not far.
What about the child who sits beside you in a pew?
You would want to save him or her, if you only knew.
The doctor or teacher’s child may be the least one suspected.
It isn’t always the ragged child who seems neglected.
The child of the thorns could be someone you know.
A child who is hurting deep in side but no place to go.
There is a place of safety for the child who is abused.
But it won’t come from the care of the one accused.
We don’t need another statistic, in the abuser's clutch.
Children deserve Roses, not thorns, it’s not asking too much.
hey,
i really liked this poem. it was touching. i knew a few younger kids who were getting abused. it was horrible, but i didnt know what to do about it. they moved half way across the country, so its too late to do anything now. but i still think about them and pray for them everynight, along with all the other children in the world who have to deal with it. this is indeed a wonderful poem, just as you are a writer!
~Rachel DiLonardo~
very beautiful
Sai Baba says love is the rose
lust is the thorn
God bless all children and all beings
Hi sarah... This is the first work that i chose to read, and i am definitely not disappointed nor uninspired. U paint such a stark and emotive picture of the poor wretched young...and their wretched life of thorns. As a teacher, i have come across many of them...and yes, their bleak lives are , in a metaphorical way, void of any brilliant rosy color . If u can , please read a poem of mine in my first hall: To Hold A Rose. Though not exactly of the same theme, but your work here reminded me of that. Thanxs...