Hard Ground & Roots

The earth I started in was dry and hard, rock‑strewn and rough, where hope was thin and scarred. I knelt there young, with nothing but my name, and learned too soon that trust is not the same as safety — that the hands I leaned on most would turn away, or lie, or make me ghost. No rain came soft to soften what I bore; I had to dig where no one dug before. Down past the stones, through layers of old pain, I wove my roots where broken bits remain — twisted them tight, made them strong and deep, so I could stand while others fell asleep. They judged my silence, called my edges sharp, not knowing how the soil had torn my heart. But every bruise became a knot below, a hold that let me grow where winds would blow. I drank my tears when skies refused to pour, fed my own life from what I had at core. Now deep beneath the weight I carry still, my tangled roots keep every promise still: to hold my ground, to rise when days are tough, to make of hardship something good enough — a steady base, a hidden, faithful power, that feeds the golden bloom I wear each hour.