Title: Deep Roots

I come from soil that remembers pain—

from hands that tilled land under burning skies,

from grandmothers who hummed lullabies

while sweeping dust from their children’s eyes.

My roots run deep beneath my skin,

like old oak veins tangled in wind—

each scar a season, each wrinkle a ring,

each silence a story my elders didn’t sing.

The roots are not always pretty—

sometimes they rot beneath concrete cities,

sometimes they pull me down

when I’m just trying to grow up.

But they hold me.

When storms rage and branches break,

when leaves fall without warning—

they hold me.

In every fight I win,

in every tear I hide,

my roots are there,

quiet, patient, ancient.

They whisper,

“Remember who you are.

You are not just seed—

you are everything that came before it.”