Burdened, with the stories, we all are, not of our own, oh no, we are, used to, carrying our own stories on our backs, it’s, those stories that weren’t, ours, to begin with, that we’re, forced, to carry that’s, become, burdensome.
Burdened, with the stories, we are, we all have our, separate stories to tell, and, some of which, we don’t even like, hearing ourselves, and we must, work through, those, negative feelings attached to these stories, with awful beginnings, and not too good an end, come to acceptance with them, then, only then, will we be able to, tell them aloud.
carrying a load as heavy as this…
photo from online
Burdened, with the stories, I was, and none of them was, ever mine, I was, forced, to carry someone else’s stories, of how FUCKED up they were, by their own, adoptive parents, on my two, tiny, child-sized, shoulders, they’d, crumbled down, and buried me alive, I’d, struggled, to get out from underneath the rubbles, but couldn’t, so I’d, slowly, stopped, breathing………
Burdened, with the stories, I never will be again, I’d, found my own, effective outlet (and no, it’s still not, PUNCHING the walls until my knuckles bruised, although, I had, done that already???). I’m now, telling those, burdensome stories of, someone else’s aloud.
Burdened, with the stories, we all are, and, some of us, get crushed by the stories, others, struggling, to break free from the stories that tangled them up, and, there are also those, who’d, worked through, the stories they’d been, burdened with, and are, thriving now, which one fits you the best, huh?
Life, the Obstacle Course 