I pray for the willingness to accept the prosperity in my life. The more I allow in, the more my younger, wounded self pushes back. She needs a voice, for right now, none other can be heard when I sit down to write. She speaks for many.
I am an aching wound that clutters city streets.
I am society’s dis-ease come to life – one more time.
I am unraveled, uninformed, undone – completely… inept at your game.
I am what goes wrong when everyone has better things to do than be bothered to help the children really.
I am grown and wandering your alleys.
A disconcerting facade will never cover what is broken.
Who am I to tell you your way is failing?
Who am I to realize my failures are birth pains toward sanity?
(O God please.)
Who am I? Nobody knows.