Being clay kept me inside a box, why was I molded and stretched every which way. When really I myself am a tree. Never perfect yet I am ever growing. I myself am filled with hope as I breathe I am grounded. Stretching my branches to the sky as I grow older and wiser. I realize that hope has never left me. Being naive I never understood how important hope could be. Still hope kept me holding onto the branches of life. Hope was the angel over my shoulder whispering words of wisdom when I needed it most. My life is always moving, growing, and I adapt. I am pulled this way and that like a tree is blown by the wind. But as the wind stops I listen to the beating of my heart, I am alive. Hope is all one needs, I hold onto my future, my dreams, and my life surrounded by the hope I was born with and will never let go of.
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Hope of a Tree
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