Being strong is painful.
Kleenex under my eyes, but unable to cry.
To shed tears is immature and weak, so I’ve heard.
Stress-induced headaches arise in the midst of the night.
Unspoken storms thrash about rationale.
Ulcers bubble between rib cages.
Silent frustration eaten between grinding teeth.
The remnants of hope scatter in pieces like dismissed poetry.
The residue of faith spread throughout the city like “Guess Who?” clues.
Trains of anticipation derail before passengers board.
Premonitions prevent me from searching for something unproven.
Lurking around every corner is a new darkness.
I kneeled before this hidden treasure in hopes of answers.
The only response I receive is death from the person who life’d me.
My method is sinful, but His mercy is forgiving.
If He forgives, why can’t you?
Living life as the modern-day Mary Magdalene is getting satirical.
…I am watering a dead flower hoping for a miracle.