It is not for me
To don a white
Powdered wig
And smash a
Wooden gavel.

Who am I to
Wear the robes
Of justice?

It is in God’s
Hands--

It always

has been.

Words do not translate as lyrics—
They become fumbled and awkward.

Why do they crumble when I voice
Them aloud?

Isn’t volume supposed to give words
Power?

Blisters sear my fingers, disappointment
Blooms,

And I realize I can only sing the songs
Of others.

Sometimes I feel
God’s hand
Around my heart,
knowing
He the only reason
It continues
beating.
Every pulse that
Shudders through me,
Is the pressure of
His love,
His hand pumping
my blood
With His enduring
plan for me.

I do not feel alive.
I feel like a cardboard
Cutout that kids push
Their heads through,
Smiling brightly as
Their parents snap
A photo.

progress only feels like
the past i am giving
up on

when you left
you took the color with you,
and now the world
is like an old television set,
with muffled sound
that grates the ears,
and a picture
that cuts in and out,
filled with static,
in brilliant black and white,
that's made more of shades of gray.
did your world get more vibrant,
when you de-saturated mine?
or did the color
disappear entirely;
slipping out of your fingers
to be consumed
by the void
where my heart
once lived

Contributed by @the.poetic.gatsby
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