And I noticed I wasn't the only one with a lot on my plate. We all did. If any of us were ever going to deal with what was on or plates and become the adults we wanted to be, we were gonna have to be smart about it. There would still be a bunch of things we needed to learn. To ask for help, to accept help, and most of all, when to help someone else. 

The ocean, it nightly played 

A role right there in her eyes 

A crash; then a flood. 

Fire, stinging her cheek

Streaked with his palm and her tears. 

It nearly killed her 

That's all over now

Bruises bloom at the thought of him

Left her with new hues. 

"Why..." "Why, why, why, WHY, WHY!"

It's not what we normally think of when we think of onomatopoeia is it... It's not the "Bang, Pop, Boom" that we thought of when we were kids. "Crying" is just a verb, it's just something we do. The word "why" so ambiguous in that it wasn't JUST to ask a simple question. In the times of desperation, in all of our inevitable losses, those so incomprehensible... we ask why. Sometimes we sob it, sometimes it's a screeching cry, sometimes full of rage and others it's dry and feeble. It's in these times that it becomes the never-ending onomatopoeia of humanity; no longer a question or as simple as an interrogative pronoun, but just a sound. Background noise in times of loss and times where theres nothing else to do but make the utterly human sound, "why."