Trying to find one ’s self, trying to know the name Maybe life is a struggle or could it be a game. Afflictions are too many, doubt abounds to confuse Getting away from it all, escaping is just no use. If all the fears are to be compounded and crushed There would be a thousand lump piling up the trash. If tears be the rain there would only be puddles And the street would be desolate and mud held. If worries be collected and have them hidden There would be no oxygen, the air will be rotten And if wishes be turned to paper plane to get rid of There will be a million soaring in the horizon of hope.