I live in the rough spot of torched remains of sorrow long ago. When a women was born into an existence far from home. Far from her Island, far from her culture and the family she would never know, so pure and innocent. She traveled in the wound of her mother, who was a strong and nurtured woman full of rage and pain. I will not let my existence go in vane she thought, as she held onto the rough spot of the ship. Blood dripping from the side of her face, as she gritted her teeth trying to break the rope that tied her to the floor. As she rocked back and forth for many days she came to a place that was not her own and there she felt the pain of who she was. Not the princess that lived in the island or the woman that she grew to be, but a savage beast in the eyes of man. From that time forth she felt the rough spot that hung over her head and burned through her veins. But she never let it take full control of her soul she used her voice and her words to keep the rough spot from taking over. She would say,” I have come from a far away land and here I have been made to stand, but this is not the place for me my place is near the blue and tropical sea”. And as that song and those words were passed down from generation to generation, she never let the rough spot consume her soul.