i am addicted to a struggle
that was passed down in
my bones but did not come
to show,
my smooth hands
never calloused
save from gripping too tight
a pencil, one in pack of 7
a struggle, each one
of them witnessed
and tried to triumph their
youthful hopes- ‘we’ll make
their lives better’

for their children have had children
and kept alive this very hope.

but what will i hope as
i never struggled to wonder
what i will eat for dinner
nor did i pace an empty apartment
new to a country full of strangers.

i did not struggle but i crave to
i deserve to. i feel
inadequate, undeserving of this ease.
with struggle comes purpose
with ease, my indifference.
i am thankful. never enough.
yet i pray for a test
to wake my sleeping bones
from rest
a struggle to sculpt me
to be just like the rest.

i pray for my posterity’s ease
yet i pray that they know
a hard day, to push them to grow
a river is not a river
when it has no room to flow.

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