Migrants.
Migrants. poem stories
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mjkemp91
mjkemp91I like to create and inspire.
Autoplay OFF  •  8 months ago
We keep the fire of hope alive because, even in the darkest night, we can see the faintest outline of approaching land.

Migrants.

Growth hurts.

And not the kind of pain that an adolescent experiences before going to sleep, head full of dreams, ready to rediscover the world upon waking.

It’s not the kind of pain that ample rest, ice, compression, or elevation can help alleviate.

There’s no promise of any muscle growth.

This is the pain of a million emotional scabs which have barely closed the night before, only to be ripped open again day after day.

But we press on, if nothing else to look back upon how far we have come.

We keep the fire of hope alive because, even in the darkest night, we can see the faintest outline of approaching land.

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