When it comes to struggling

we know nothing. we are dumb.

Some are silent.  Some are screamed,

but it is rarely what it seems.

While a child starves at home

another starves alone, A victim of the numbers.

But another wears long sleeves to hide what is under:

the red lines, that turn pink, then white, while the person hopes they fade.

A sick child facing death can be seen in a picture

but we would never see the internal pain of the parent who is acting brave.

And the quiet onen in the class is an insomniac who has panic attacks.  Scarred by a sibling's suicide.

The well-off, attractive student goes home to take care of their druggie parent.

And the smart kid gets beat for having a B.

Struggle is relative, internal but it shows.

Alone in our struggling, but in struggling not alone.