Sorrow of Freedom

A heart torn so abrupt that your chest feels only the pressure of mountains.

Your own hands fighting the urge to save your heart from the drowning explosion ticking down deep inside. 

But to rip would be to take, am I truly ready?

Survival.

But then there are the tears from the sorrow of your heart.

The mending of scars, it's coolness softly settling and caressing the soul.

Happiness is too bright a word, but this sorrow isn't one of dread.

It's the difference of the sun shining after a storm and the resting clouds remaining hovered above, 

the flower still choosing to bloom.

It's making it and the internal victory being sweet. 

It's the feeling of knowing how the rain is needed, but is no longer inflicted by force, it's freely accepted to grow anew.

I may like the flowers, I may know the battle that they may endure during powerful hurricanes sweeping the unprepared. But it's the light trickle instead of the shredding skies.

The flower enjoys the drops on its reaching petals, blooming upon them and breathing it in. 

Not forced to sprout from the drowning ground.

The cave is there, the one I walk by. I see the darkness that lies within, not all bad. I respect the path, but move forward, not having to choose the beauty at the end of the tunnel to survive, but choosing it freely. 

Sorrow of Freedom, 

not of Survival.