The words come easy, but they're attached to a stone.
Gripped by vines that choke it, the vines are overgrown.
She can't tear them out of their rooted maze,
Although trying to tear them consumes her days.

She comes with a story, a purpose, a reason,
But she'll only let you know if you're who she'll believe in.
Not very many have played that part,
Therefore not many know of the sting in her heart.

The ones with potential are the ones on the line,
Caught between two stones, they feed into her vine.
They do it with turned heads, so they can't see her eyes,
But they can't push her down if she's wearing disguise.

Her heart is the soil and her tears act as rain,
Just add in some sun and it all equals pain.
Even in drought when the vines grow tired and sore,
There's a persistent strength in the sturdy vine's core.

She keeps tugging at it though, in attempt to forget its name.
She pulls hardest when its weak; for that's how to win the game.
This vine has played her before, a fight before surrender,
But her journey to any victory is one she always remembers.

This round has lasted weeks, which is longer than most do,
But as she keeps tugging on the vine all she can say is "Thank you."
The confident green rope is determined to take its time,
But, to her, there's nothing better than clearing out a vine.