My metaphor for life.

A blooming rose, each petal constructed by grand design, felt as soft as velvet, if not better, seen by all, admired by all. Every summer, a new blossom, regarded as the prettiest in the world, cut too early for the pleasure of others. So early, it never has the chance to become a rose hip, the seed of a nation, the multiplier of millions; which it will never be. Constantly, the life goal is cut short, cut down, destroyed, every time the plant takes a step, for those who conjured it up believe it too pretty to let have it's own way. Yes, in fact, it is so beautiful, jealousy causes others to turn into weeds, trying to choke it to death, or make sure that all it wants, for that one rose hip to be made, the dream to be achieved, is never reached. But, they are not bad for what they do; after all, everyone needs to be noticed, to have attention, in order to thrive. Alas, who can know how to break the endless cycle, of the millions of roses that hide the pain behind the petals? Who can see within the person, to help, to heal? 

Who can know the rose?