Dear Lord,
Someone said…
I can’t see the hurt in others.
For my own HURT is
Hellbent,
Unfinished,
Regurgitated,
Trash.

I can’t deny why, but it sits
In a silent box and hides behind
My laughter and my smile.
Only to show up in my dark circles,
Shorter hair, resolvable health
Ailments, & my fat absorption machine.
So when one bursts my emotional
Bubble that I hide behind so frequently…
Yes, my rivers will flow.
I’ll extract venom,
Ask why,
Blame my humble “nice” self,
And hit restart again.

Now wait a minute… humble might
Be too good of a box to put me in.
After all its you looking at me
Looking at you trying to condition me.

So okay,
I fuck up.
I fucked up.
I am fucking up.
But I’m not fucked up!

Therefore, “my tragedies” are not
Beyond me getting on my knees,
Praying,
Putting into action what
I know I can do,
And leaving the rest up to Him.
Amen.

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