Break my wings and teach me how to fly

Teach me how to fly, remind me how to walk on water; without wings and without faith. 

Like that night you broke them and asked me to fly, the same one you caused my faith to fail when I'd taken a few steps on water, I should have asked you in return, to:

Teach me how to fly, remind me how to walk on water; without wings and without faith. 

When you came, I had to hold greatly to the lesson of hope: hold on. But the longer you stayed, the looser my grip to the rope became. 

That is when you taught me how to hold tight to hope, the rope, when hands are weak and trembling. 

As you stared they changed color, and that is what fear does when it fills you up. It tries to make you look just like it. Your glare, it did scare me a little but teach me a lot about color. As my palms turned red, you taught me that maybe fear in reality is red. It's red, isn't it? 

Breathlessly, painstakingly I whispered: Teach me how to fly, remind me how to walk on water; without wings and without faith. 

My wings broke, and I did lose grip of the rope, I did drown and as I lost breath, suffocating under water, I heard that fear made the best of us when we let it. Somehow, in drowning, after realizing that the hands that waved in the air went unnoticed, suffocating loosely translated gulps of air. I realized I should never have worried about having you to;

Teach me how to fly, remind me how to walk on water; without wings and without faith. 

You did it when you shoved me in a pool of dirty thoughts that seemed to quench your soul when it took over mine. Pain, you may not know this but you did a great job. You actually did break my wings and teach me how to fly.