It's so much easier               .
                .
                                           .                To cry out
          To let go
.
                                             to drown in whatever has us
        
     to willingly let it end         .
.                      .    
                                  ­              
                   this is were the hopeful part comes in   .

.
     but I can't seem to
  
                                             Come up with anything

uprooted from
dew ridden dirt
and while growing from
such a sight
it's still hard to hold
on to what defines
one as human

A ravaged soul for the cost of being able to speak
A dark  one for wanting peace
A troubled one for sitting back
A scorched one for endurance
And a stolen one for speaking out

"why are we always trying so hard?" my eyes shift towards my mother, and i say "when we are going to die anyways."  
"beti," says my mother as she walks up to me and sits next to me holding me in her arms, she continues "it's because most of the time we're striving so hard isn't for ourselves, it's for the people we love."

thousand needles to        
                                        .         pierce a soul,  leave it withered
.        .                      .  

            and one to mend it        .           .
     .                       .              .                           .
             .                       .                    .                          .