life has always been a tough thing to understand. to grip onto.
the tighter your grip was, the stronger you valued your life.
but what if your grip became weak?
what if, no matter how hard you tried to grip the bars of life, your fingers continued to slip?
sometimes, you have no control over how tight your grip is.
i always was considered physically and mentally weak.
not only would my grip become frail,
but even on those days where my grip was strong enough to get my head above the bars,
my tears would fall without thinking,
and the bars of life became toxic and wet
and my fingers would slip
and i would fall.
sometimes it's better with nothing to grip onto.

The children are running and stumbling
A humbling experience, but deliverance
Is only gained here by running in fear
Away from those who hate and ****
And warp the will of those too young
To see people hung and murdered.

So they are herded with the living
Into an unforgiving world of pain
None should see, even less see again
But they remain in these clusters
Mustering and lining up for food
A homeless brood of adopted waifs
That should be naifs instead of this,
Nomads, glad of a blanket for bed
On the hard ground, all they found
To call home during flight, for tonight,

Not all are children, but the hurt
From blurted out hateful names
Is not the same for the young ones
Who should be having fun and not
Suffering through this hell they got
From being born in the right city
In a time of no pity and no rescue,
No kindness the world should do,
Instead they cringe from angry faces
As if they were disgraces for living.
Nothing left for giving to them.

These are orphans now, not sons
Not daughters, what was begun
Has ended for them, permanently
While nations stand by silently
Watching the perfidy and sighs,
Ignorant of their cries and destitution.
No restitution can ever come to some.
To most there is only memory of death
And running, out of breath, nowhere
Because nobody is there for them.
It is their problem.