When the storm inside you rushes you like wind from a hurricane,

Which makes the thoughts of hopelessness spins like a anchored tornado of rage,

The pain of wanting fulfillment thru the limbs of your roots to the branches of your tree,

Your three of exhaustion, frustration and doubt never to bloom into what once was your excitement of existing,

Picking up leaves that fall from your branches which grew as you planted your seeds of fight,

Somewhere that fights turn those branches into welted sticks,

Stick of where you found poisonous attached branches that when they grew, the more each would be falling off,

Not falling from gusts of winds, but holding those branches intact because of a survival remorse to protect,

Duty of helpfulness and caring more of those branches weathering away without blossoming into evergreen leaves,

This leaves stick on got possession of what nourishment you give from your roots,

The tears from the dry ground and wet sky, you try to give back the nourishment you lost at the beginning,

A bigger wind comes in a form of a lumber jack to break down what was being restored,

Once again , you’re back to being just a possession of ownership,

Longing to stand the countless hacking, breaking, and surviving for another day.