Roots are the bones of our past,

They’re made to last,

Searching the world for life,

Hiding away at night,

They stay buried deep unless searched for,

Once they come out most wish they never asked for more,

They’re not the prettiest, the blossoming flowers we’re used to,

They’re rough, long, a past we wish we never knew,

But they made us, good or bad, we can’t for get them,

As much as they might overwhelm,

Buried within us, peaking out only to the worthy,

I might hide my roots to many, but without them I’d be a pitiful tree.