A rose

Beautiful, with sharp prickly points

Viewed from any angle, it is still a rose

From an optimist's perspective,

A wonderful bloom of color

From a pessimist's eyes,

A withered, flowerless vine,

In which will only hurt you when your guard is down

To a realist,

A pretty goal, with a painful journey

To me, 

All of the above, and much more to explore

And as I stare at a single rose, it changes over time

Once a beautiful, dethorned flower I loved, but took for granted

Another time, a weapon as sharp as knives, cutting my flesh

And now, I stay weary, not knowing which the rose will choose tomorrow

Though, I can no longer dethorn, nor will I weaponize, the rose

I can choose how to see it, pretty, harsh, or somewhere in between

For you see, if you uncover my metaphor, maybe you'll figure this flower out too

And for some of you, I hope before it's not too late