Poetry is a hard life. Writing is a hard life. Art, in any way, shape or form is a hard life. But we do it because we feel it in our souls. We might not necessarily be good at it. It might not be able to earn us a living, and all the words in our heart may threaten to tear us apart, or to overflow and drown the world. It may seem like too much of a burden, to have the power of the pen, to feel like you're drifting out on an ocean of emotions that flicker so quickly past you don't have time to grasp it and put it on paper, thoughts and feelings too beautiful to ever be captured by words. And so many times we want to walk away, to stop, to give up. But I think what makes it worth it isn't the result. It doesn't matter what happens in the end. Whether the words are clumsy or not. Whether anybody publishes it or not. Whether or not anyone else approves, even. It doesn't matter in the end. What matters is the journey. And honestly, for people like us? The journey itself is enough.

My mother's tears bend my spine.
Her weigh bends the wood that has made me strong like a tree in a storm.
The water from her tear helps my feet sink roots into the ground, only to hope it keep us from washing away.
Her heave breath, pump air into mine with a pray that it will keep us both alive.
Her scared hand had clawed their way up from hell so that I will be one step closer to heaven when I take over the fight.
Because with my brother youthful eye watch our mothers sob, I know this fight can longer belong to her.
Therefore I pick up her broke shield and bent blade.
I straighten my wooden spine over the weight of those that watch.
Willing to become an unbreaking oak to keep my beloved safe.
Ready to fight as a warrior in the world war that is life.

Teary eyes with heavy heart,
Moving towards a new land
A place where I will be called a refugee
Which is far away from my home
For which my heartbeat forever.

Other's can feel the same
But cannot match the pain
I am the one who is alien
Why this is happening
Greed for money and power
Change my heaven into the fire

Leaving my motherland to other's land,
Do they accept me as their own
I don't know what will happen
But will keep praying, one day I will
be at my motherland
And the tag will become only a word.

Amongst alien places and alien faces,
Where familiarity had no traces,
In the scorching sun, still feeling cold,
Falling down and having nobody to hold,
My fears untold ,I had a fake smile,
I secretly shed a tear , every once in a while,
I longed to be independent of those chains of misery,
Little did I know , that was my key to be free,
My key to step out of my cocoon,
My chance to touch the stars and the moon,
My chance to start a brand new tale,
I had no one to judge me even when I fail,
I failed and I failed but I knew I would sail,
You won't feel pleasure if you haven't seen pain,
Trust me , the struggle never goes in vain,
I met the kind of people, I didn't even know exist,
I felt good about the opportunities I hadn't missed,
I thought I had a terrible life , but I was wrong,
The struggle stays for a bit , but the pleasure period is long,
I looked back , from where I started,
From where me and my comfort parted,
And the transformation in me brought tears in my eyes,
I had finally achieved victory, the new me, was my prize ,
It was the best feeling I had ever felt ,
I went to my Mom and down I knelt,
I thanked her for sending me away,
And I thanked her again, everyday.
-Aastha Arora

She's expected to be strong,
She's expected to be the glue,
To the broken glass,
She's not expected to cry,
She's not expected to scream.

But in reality,
She's weak,
She's the broken glass,
She cries almost every night,
She holds in her screams,
But her mind is screaming.

She's expected to be nice,
By Almost every person she meets,
She's expected to be more than that,
She's expected not to be rude.

But in reality,
She's not as nice as much anymore,
She avoids people more than she should,
She's says she “okay” though,
just Not as she should

She's expected to be there for her friends,
She's expected to listen and give advice,
Not to complain or need advice,
To have the perfect life and relationships.

But in reality,
She's drifting away,
She listens, but not fully,
She needs to complain sometimes but never dose,
she is falling apart.

She's expected to have the perfect family,
No divorce, no lies, no backstabbing,
Nobody trying to hurt anyone,
No abuse, no fighting, no drugs

But in reality,
Her parents are divorced, her mom was beat,
sister *****, dad wants nothing to do with her,
her mom is married to someone new, who has more kids that is put over her, her mom was taken from her for a year and came back a completely different person, her mother steals, Her bio-father is a compulsive liar, her sisters put her down everyday, Her biological dad ***** her sister, He tried getting her mom to get rid her.

She's expected to be close to her sisters,
No fighting, no yelling, Glued to the hip,
Inseparable.

But in reality,
They fight constantly, She can't stand them,
They're the reason, Why she's so sad now,

She's expected to not cut, She's expected to not have scars,
Not to be depressed, Not to be addicted to such a wretched thing.

But in reality,
She's been cutting for years,
And was almost two years clean,
Because she wanted people to stop jugeding.

She has scars all around her thigh,
more on her wrist.
She's addicted to cutting, She's itching to,
But her mother doesn't think she is,
“If you really wanted to die you would be gone
You only do it because you want attention, and lashing out.”
That's what her mother says.

Little do they know,
That their perfect little girl
Is slipping away,
Soon, She'll will be gone, and they will miss her.
She will be expected to come back but she won’t.

He was out in the field
Trying to earn a living
He did this every year
Nothing had ever been given
The sweat poured off his brow
Humidity was overwhelming
The Sun's rays like hammers was beating down
Being on the verge of starving was compelling
Making him work that much harder
For he was paid by the bushels he picked
Every night he gave God thanks for the farmer
For he was very fair, although very strict

The man stood up for a moment stretching out his worn out back
Sweat dripping from every pore, he took a look around
He stood there counting his blessings, not the things he lacked
He was determined not to let this poverty driven life get him down
He continually worked so very very hard, he never slacked

His eye's fell over the field that stretched out to the horizon
Through the dust and haze, beamed his beautiful smile
For in his mind he could see what use to be, the mighty herds of bison
The Indians like him just trying to carve out a lifestyle
They where also unjustly exiled

But none of that mattered, not on this sweltering day
He knelt back down to get as much work done as he could
For his children where hungry, their bellies would not get filled by the Sun's rays
He was a better, taller man kneeling in that dirt, those that knew him understood

Down in the depths of the hole, there's no sound but the beat of my heart
And my dark charred thoughts
That drip like black oil
That everything it touch's, it stains and soils
Thoughts of death and gruesome memories
From them there is no where to flee
So I lay in the bed curled into a tight ball
Just waiting to hit the bottom of the fall
There is no one to talk to, no one to call
No one knows how this inky darkness flows
How it consumes the soul and continues to grow
I'm imprisoned in theses bones, this skin
Is this how the end begins
I've prayed for love and light
But I've only been given glimpses of that site
Any happiness I have fought for is snatched away
In just a short few days
So now I pray
For death and a shortening of my years
To live a long agonize life is my fears
Not one month goes by that tragedy doesn't strike
It's like trying to get through life on a trike
You pedal really really hard but get no where
To tell the truth I just don't care
I want to become totally unaware