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There's so much that I want to say
So much popping up in my feed and head today
But the fact is all that comes out now is
I'm so tired of this

You can't have an opinion unless you're white
You can't have an opinion unless you're black
You can't have, you can't think, you can't do
You're racist, you're not a Christian, you're not Jack

For You see,
I'm tired not for myself
But of all the negativity

I'm so tired of a culture that's bleeding
And we think tapping a keyboard is
Bringing about so much change
But it's not, it's leaving us needing

Needing change that isn't coming
Cause of us it's faltering
A constant uphill battle we've created
But to that end we keep running

We used to go out and help a man in desperate need
We used to give out to the hungry without filming it for our feed

We used to never know what happened on the other side of the globe
But now if we don't then we must be ignorant with a broken frontal lobe

We're called to address so many issues
But we don't take care of the ones that are
Right in front of us in our daily lives
You know the ones that you keep hid deep inside

We call out our fellow man and say I'm better
But the plank in our eyes keeps us from seeing that we have our own fetter.

I'm tired and worn
Maybe you are too
But what do we accomplish
By speaking what isn't true

I want to hear positivity
I want to know i made a difference
I met the need of someone
And created a smile where there was none

A lot have been struggling this year
No job, no money, stuck inside with fear

How about we ignore the social media
And focus on the neighbors that live next door
How about we focus on our communities first before we tackle more

How about we turn off the news
Go outside and make some instead

I'm just so tired and worn.
Orion Lesneski Dec 2019
Pick me up,
And open my cover,
But be careful,
Cause I might crumble,
Read my fine print,
Just don’t mock the way I am,
I’ve been through alot since then,
Drugs,
Fights,
Heart breaks,
And more,
Are all the things you’ll find,
In my novel.
Poetic T Aug 2019
Each word is a sandpaper syllable,
    And ever breath Is a knife sharpened.



                     Between both all are cleaved,
                                and each part is divided



and consumed when spoken.


                      we will never heal when both
                    


  are motioned upon us at once.


                                       We are cut

endlessly between ourselves and
                           only time can heal us.
Glenn Currier Jul 2019
Back in the corner of the closet
they rest covered in layers of dust
so thick I can barely see their color
but I remember the days of trust

I placed in them on ladders
dragging the hose through mud
standing before the radial saw
cutting with fear of drawing blood

Yes they are quite ugly
scuffed and parting at seams
soles worn and getting holey
walked through broken dreams

But I’ve got more work to do
I shake off the past with their dust
put on these old shoes cozy and true
and step into another future with trust.
Joshua Penrod Jun 2019
Exhausted
Trying constantly
To shed all those days
That have long since passed  

"Passed Days" -JP
Ash May 2019
Yellow journal
Aged in fondness
Worn by the weight  of powerful words
Forgotten upon the shelf
Neglected despite your cheery shade
An artist leaves a piece of themselves within their art
A fateful discovery
Thats exactly what you are
Beaten up, broken,
torn weathered-
By years of dry land and drought of inspiration
Made alive by Christ
And awake in its pages
Your cover is worn
Your pictures dilapidate
But once you open up
Magic careens
Unveiled under your dusty pages is joy
Romance
Poetic trances
Art of divine nature
That is exactly what you are
Worn yet beautiful
Aged and reminiscent
Evoking fond warmth
You are the yellow journal
Beloved yellow journal
Thera Lance May 2019
They're the same, in some ways,
With piercing eyes of green that strike me still in wonder.
He stares down from his throne at those who have built up his walls
While she looks past the aisles, capturing me in the winter of her eyes.

The frost in their eyes isn't complete.
Like the white that eats at the edges of the leaves
During the coming dawn and approaching night,
There's something there, brittle and worn
That they hide behind clear ice.

I want to know you,
Lean in close to see the fractured light of your soul
As it slips through the dark cracks of your eyes.
I wish to know how much of the green has survived the frost,
To breathe warmth onto that which you have left frigid
And that others refuse to let thaw.
TD Mar 2019
Her coverless-tattered state proved the journeys she had gone through.
Her old purple spine was scratched and bent,
Yet still beautifully intact.

The woman who brought her up filled her with stories,
Delicately placing each powerful word,
Gently building her up page by page,
Giving her a story to call her own.

She told her story to each reader,
Each page turn,
Every emotion.
Her pains in every paragraph,
Her charisma in every character,
Her love in every line,
Her tears in every tear.

She was worn
Yet brand new.

She held a strong font,
Each bold showing her power to change something,
Each italization expressing her importance.

Every time her story was told if affected a new person.

Crinkled and worn pages gave life a new meaning,
Provided a new definition of friendship, gave a new reason to live,
Provided a new reason to love.
She taught everyone something,
Giving away her everything.

She was judged for her looks by many,
But loved for her contents just as much.
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