Dreams don't die

When I was young, my father told me it'd be hard.

He told me that I wouldn't understand.

My father thought I'd follow my peers.

Such and such, he drank plenty of beers.

He would come home to silence.

Us kids laid in bed quiet.

We wouldn't let out a peep.

Because all he would do is scream.

My mother told me it'd be okay.

The abuse never let up nor did the pain.

We woke up to challenge every day.

Together, we took on the world.

Forever, I'd be their little girl.

I grew up destroyed but stronger than ever.

My parents taught me enough.

Abused and spoiled.

That's all I ever had.

All I knew was pain.

Growing up was insane.

Poverty wasn't just around the globe.

It happened because I knew.

I knew it was in our home.

It settled in slowly.

Our family was cracking at the seams.

Our relationship fragile by broken dreams.

We faced death, poverty, addiction, what seemed to be like everything.

We didn't have much money. We didn't have much clothes.

We didn't have friendships to hold.

We didn't have fear, because we were used to the challenge.

All we believed was that we had each other.

But I grew up... knowing better.

Faith to people was just an abstract color.

To me, faith meant believing.

To me, faith kept me dreaming.

I had everything when I had faith.

I didn't want to live without God in my life.

If I didn't have the Lord's love, I'd give up and die.

I spread this joy to my family, and closer we reunite.

Even though we've been broken, our fire can still ignite.