And if you aren't weak, are you then strong?

Does that come with the knowledge of right and wrong?

Does the measure of your pain, like a long, steal braided rope, decide?

Who is willing to read the ropes that end in suicide?

A steal rope, so frigid and icy in some spots and blazing in another,

Held together with different cloaks, stained with colors and a bloodied face to cover,

Some eventually become a tower, strong and taunt:

With edges who are ceaselessly wrought;

Rising high and demanding, withstanding storm after storm of sharp words,

Wanting and yearning in your heart of hearts to steal away the freedom of feathered birds,

Then others rust before they try to rise, a sickness of the heart thats heard in every creak,