Each day I carry things that I wish I could drop.
Each day the burden of the things that I carry crush me into submission.
I feel alone and lost each day; it’s like I’m gasping for air and holding onto a fragment of hope.
Each day I carry something new and it piles on until it will ultimately lead to my demise.
The burden of solitude, guilt, a necklace, a fragment of hope.
Each item or emotion that I carry holds a piece of me.
I can’t dare part with these things it would tear my very existence apart.

My mother once said that each day I walk into the world, someone would try to hurt me.
It was a cold night and my mother was at the kitchen table holding something. My birthday was fast approaching, and somehow I knew that whatever was in my mother's curled fist was my gift.
She whispered my name, and I walked in, anxious and excited.
Her hands were soft in the kitchen light.
She looked tired and worried.
I walked to her and held her hands.
They were small in size and frail to touch.
A swift rain was tapping on the windows, begging to be let in.
In a delicate movement, she dropped a sea of silver into my hands.
When my eyes finally fixed on the object, it was a necklace that had a treble clef on it.
I felt the cool silver in my hand and looked up at her.
She held my gaze with her eyes and whispered to me.
She told me that as long as I had that necklace, I would never be alone.
I carry it with me but never wear it in fear of it getting damaged.

When walking down a street alone, a person hears things that they never thought they would.
I hear life blooming and blossoming with emotions of love and happiness.
But each day I carry something different.
My emotions are dark, and I am unable to change them.
They are a black hole ******* in any ounce of happiness that I have.
I carry the weight of not fitting in anywhere; I carry the blood of the cuts that harsh reality has laid upon my body.
The world has slammed me to the ground, and I carry the bruises that life has placed on my heart.
Each time I try to get up, the burden of all the things that I carry becomes crushing.
I feel useless and alone; I doubt that the things I carry will ever go away.
I just have to hope and pray.
The only way to forget the emotional trauma that I’ve been through is to let everything go,
but I'm not strong enough to say goodbye,
nor am I strong enough to keep holding on.    

There are moments in life that stay with us even when things seem rough.
I remember when I was younger, and the world seemed like a huge place. Everything just felt smaller at grandma’s house.
I would go over there everyday and help her clean her house and arrange cans of food by their expiration date.
We would laugh and sing together, she would hold me close to her chest, and I would hear her heartbeat in her chest.
The sound of life pulsed through her, until it didn’t.
My grandmas funeral was on a very hot summer day, but I had never felt colder.  The vision of seeing her casket being lowered into the ground made my heart twist in my chest.
I was alone in that moment, and it will always stick with me.
The memories of life and death remind me of how little time we really have on this earth.
Now I live each day as if it was my last.
I carry the memory of time that pressures me to be more and do more before my time runs out.
When I look at all the things that I carry I realize that being human is one of the hardest things to do.
We have to carry the burdens of life, things to keep us from going down, and the hopes and dreams to do better.
The things I carry each day are a reminder of how the world has shaped my personality.
I would never be able to part with the things I carry because, ultimately they are the things that make me myself.