There are strings pulling me back all the time,
The hooks at their end digging deeper and deeper,
into my heart, hurting and bleeding ceaselessly,
with each falling grain in the hour-glass of life.
Delicate strings, each important, just like a bird needs wings.
Some with time, have grown into lace,
Some have been knotted up into a mess.
Too many weights to drag behind,
I snapped some strings and to them turned blind.
Numerous strings have been ruthlessly pulled out,
some of which had become too stout.
Despite all that crimson flowing out of the breaks,
Cruel hands didn’t stop to think if it was a mistake.
Some other strings I’ve held on to dearly,
Tied them back when they had snapped nearly.
And some other strings simply snapped on their own,
when the test of time had made them too worn.
Few strings always have been there, permanent and infinite.
Growing out of the heart, with no hooks in sight.
And even though all these strings have left my heart all sore,
It never stopped yearning for more.