Thorns and Roses

They whisper behind cupped hands, a symphony of spite,

A chorus of doubt, a relentless, gnawing blight.

My haters, they call themselves, fueled by envy's fire,

But oh, how their venom makes my passion burn higher.

Their barbs, like thorny branches, may prick and may tear,

Yet deep within the thicket, a curious bloom I bear.

For negativity's shadow pushes me towards the sun,

A twisted kind of affection, a battle well-won.

They scoff at my dreams, with cynicism laced,

But doubt is a whetstone, by which my spirit is braced.

Their scorn paints a target, a bullseye I see,

A challenge to conquer, a chance to truly be free.

So thank you, dear haters, for lighting my way,

Your darkness a canvas, on which my triumphs I'll display.

With every harsh word, my resolve takes its stand,

For love, like a rose, can bloom even in barren sand.