The mud pulls me under,
thick silence clinging to my skin,
a weight of sorrow pressing down,
whispers of doubt
curling around my lungs.
I sink,
but not forever.
With trembling arms
I heave against the sludge,
my muscles tearing,
then knitting themselves stronger.
Each fall teaches me
a new way to rise.
Every descent sharpens
the angles of my vision,
bending despair
into shapes of wisdom.
The darkness
gives me strange sight:
to see fractures in the world
where light can pour through,
to hear songs
hidden beneath the noise.
Creativity blooms
in the cracks of my struggle.
Perspective ripens
in the soil of my pain.
Innovation hums
like blood in my veins.
Empathy grows
where scars once lived.
I learn,
again and again,
to wrestle with gravity
and come up breathing.
And when the mud
clutches at me longer,
I rise to remember:
what doesn’t kill you
makes you stronger.
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