An ode to truth. The thorns are cutting.

The world is a garden of barbs and wires, Designed not to nurture, but to wound. We are born into systems that see us as tools, Flesh and bone for the hands of the powerful.

The thorns are cutting.

The healthcare system has abandoned us, A hollow promise with empty pockets. A price for every breath, every pill, Every moment spent surviving.

The thorns are cutting.

Poverty is no longer a shadow but a living condition. More now than ever, the divide has grown. The elite stand on their hilltops, Counting wealth as if it could shield them from the wind.

The thorns are cutting.

America was supposed to be the land of opportunity, But the gates are locked, the paths closed. Dreams are whispered here, but they come at a cost— Labor, debt, sacrifice.

The thorns are cutting.

The systems are sharp and designed to hold you down, Justice blind, freedoms sold, paths obscured. Every choice you make is already a choice they designed for you, Every step further into their web.

The thorns are cutting.

They watch as we stumble, as we bleed, And they smile, knowing the wounds will never heal. Every cut, every broken bone, every empty stomach— A symbol of submission, of control, of surrender. Who will correct them, afterall we are all small.

The machine does not care for the cries or the prayers. It thrives on suffering, on fear, on silence. The system was never meant to change; it was built to devour. And yet we stay, clawing at the roots, Hoping to find a way out, Knowing there is none.

The thorns are cutting.

But even in this, there is a question. How much longer will you let them? How much longer will you let the barbs tear your skin, Until there is nothing left but bone and surrender?

The thorns are cutting.