Your scars,
Deep rivers,
Etched with veins and blood.
Your storm,
A raging fire on your ship,
Screams hidden
Beneath the fiery roar.
It's YOUR fire,
A smoldering core
Of you—
Born from your heart,
Soul,
Experiences,
People you meet.
It's your flame,
A fierce flame,
Licking at your weaknesses,
Boarding your ship
And burning it—
Not giving up the fight.
You're not broken,
Only shaped by your fire—
So is your boat.
You're reborn,
Shaped like molten metal
Through your wildest flame.
Your story is never "soft"—
It's your sword,
Carved from
New-found courage,
Love,
Hate, and strength
After each rebuild.
We all break,
But then we bloom,
Like dandelions
Bursting through
Cracked concrete—
They stay alive no matter
How many times they get crushed.
You can rise
From blood—
The crimson ink
Is now your story.
You shed
It all
As your power
Of writing.
The sky will
Turn blue,
Washing away
Raging waves
Who roar
Like the largest lion.
Cotton ball clouds
Will patch your wounds,
Gently soothing
Your battered heart—
Shattered boat.
We'll all come together,
Helping to build
Your sails back up,
From frayed, worn threads,
Repairing the wooden boards
With boards
Like bones,
Holding strength inside.
Your storm is beautiful,
Just like you.
It's your storm—
We'll be here --always--
To help you fight through.