To heal, must find joy in the little things
to reveal, must love in many different ways
To be tired, to be alone, that is the solitude that comes as a result of the forgetting to breath sometimes, part.  
When the strings are pulled apart, I beat
a beautifully crafted heart willing to take in, time and time again, the anger that is experienced with loss,
the sadness that is experienced with acceptance, and the perseverance that is embodied with hope.
Hope, that tomorrow will be a new blessing,
hope, that we find the time to continue in this work,
hope, that the lessons learned become encrypted to our melanin, hope, that this brown skin can tell that story of resistance and resilience written on ancestral skin:
Prejudices of the past and the progresses of the future, hope. I am under the trails of train-wrecked hope…Overwhelmed by the revelation of my entrails, I am surrendered to this:
If this is hope, it comes priced, and it is often charged by the tongue of the martyr, which is really the heart that thinks with a mind of its own.
Sometimes I find that my heart and my mind figured out they are soul mates, and so we hope,
and lie in bed sharing dreams that are later told through the fingertips, working like electric shock waves as they dance through time and labor. Time and labor, bearing each a fruit: this is my hope. Hope that one day this work will not be in vain. Hope that the blood course through my veins can teach my heart a lesson, that hope, does not desist, and as it dances to a new song, it has every right to resist, that which is pollution, that which is injustice, that which is inhumane, that which seeks to control my own evolution, hope. So even when I am tired, hear this, hope, we are a poem written as a reminder, you must never lose, hope.