Poetry

Quitta…

have you had enough yet—
or still sipping that sorrow
like it ain't hit your chest yet?
Still riding them buses
labeled "Temporary Relief,"
but every stop got you seated
in a cycle of grief?
Still dragging them baggage
God told you don't check—
full of pain, full of people,
full of unpaid debt?

Quitta…

have you had enough
of being strong for the show?
When your soul been whispering,
"Baby girl… let it go."
'Cause the numbers ain't quiet—
they screaming out loud:
forty percent of the trafficked
look just like your crowd.

But you thirteen percent
of the women we see—
so how you the target
of captivity?
How you the hunted,
the broken, the blamed—
called "fast" and "grown"
when you weren't even named?
Oh sometimes it makes me tremble...
tremble in my soul—
how they studied your body
but ignored your whole.

Quitta...
have you had enough
of waiting on "I do"?
When only twenty-nine percent
made it come true?
Nearly half still waiting,
still hoping love stays—
while time keeps ticking
through silent delays.
One hundred six sisters
for every hundred men—
trying to find covenant
in a world of "if" and "when".
So you love with a guard,
or don't love at all—
build walls so high
even God gotta call.

Quitta…
have you had enough
of working and still in lack?
Seven-point-seven unemployed—
still fighting to get back.
While the nation sits lower
at four-point-four—
you knocking on doors
that don't open no more.
Fourteen weeks searching,
still stuck in the wait—
qualified, capable…
but locked out the gate.
They cut whole sectors,
they silenced your lane—
then blamed your hustle
for systemic pain.
Yet you still show up,
still carry the load—
building whole lives
on a cracked-up road.

Quitta...
have you had enough
of loving what's killing you slow?
Let me tell you 'bout Dyamond—
a story the headlines don't hold.
Dyamond Dee...
she loved through the bruises and fear,
held on to a man
who kept death riding near.
They argued, they battled,
that toxic back-and-forth—
love turned to a weapon,
pain driving the course.
Speeding through chaos,
control in his hands—
a crash in the night
that neither one planned.
Metal met mercy—
or maybe judgment instead—
two lives in collision…
and both of them dead.
Oh sometimes it makes me tremble…
tremble in my soul—
how love can look like living,
but still cost you your whole.

Quitta…
have you had enough
of calling abuse "connection"?
Of confusing control
with love and affection?
Enough of the cycle—
the break, then the plea?
Enough of losing yourself
trying to make "we" be?
Because your daughters are watching—
learning love from your pain,
thinking chaos is normal,
thinking hurt is the gain.
From one-point-nine
to nearly five—
young queens deciding
if they should survive.
Eight percent higher
they whisper, "I'm done…"
while we preach endurance
but don't help them run.
Prayer with no presence,
faith with no reach—
leaves a child drowning
just outside the preach.

Quitta...
this ain't just stress—
this is soul fatigue.
This is carrying crowns
while your knees feel weak.
This is being the answer
but never the ask—
being the hero
but hiding the mask.
You been riding them routes:
"Don't Cry," "Push Through,"
"Figure It Out,"
"Don't Be You."
But none of them buses
drop healing near—
just circles of survival
and cycles of fear.

But PAIN ain't your prison—
it's calling you now:
Pay Attention Inside Now—
God breaking you out somehow.
You not Dyamond's ending—
you can rewrite the page.
You not bound to the crash—
you can step off the stage.
You not the statistic—
you the shift in the trend.
You not the cycle—
you the place it gon' end.

Moses walked out.
Esther stood tall.
Mary bore purpose
through gossip and gall.
And Jesus…
stared at the cup,
felt death drawing near—
but still said, "Your will,"
while trembling in fear.

So Quitta…
this is your moment—
not to break, but decide:
Will you keep riding pain—
or step off with your pride?
'Cause there's another bus coming,
but this one ain't the same—
it don't traffic your body,
it restores your name.
It don't measure your worth
by stats or by loss—
it calls you redeemed…
and worthy of the Cross.

So I ask you again—
not soft, but enough:
Quitta…
have you had enough—
To stop just surviving…
and start rising in love?

Did our hearts stop…
or do we have a concussion?
Did mercy fall silent
while cruelty found discussion?
Did compassion collapse
on the side of the road,
while a child bore a weight
no young soul should hold?

At a bus stop corner
where backpacks meet dawn,
two tempers rose quickly—
then everything was gone.
Phones came out.
The circle grew tight.
Screens glowed brighter
than conscience that night.

Oh sometimes it makes me tremble…
tremble deep in my soul—
how a watching crowd gathers
while kindness loses control.

A young girl stood there
with tomorrow in sight,
a heart full of dreams
and a future still bright.
But anger rose quickly,
and fists filled the air,
while mercy stood silent
and nobody dared.
And Heaven leaned low
as the moment turned to conquest—
and a crown was prepared
for young, beautiful Jada West.

Did our hearts stop…
or did we lose direction?
Or are we simply walking
with a moral reflection?
Because somewhere I remember
a preacher's refrain,
marching through sorrow,
through struggle and PAIN.
Hey there, take a bow—
PAIN means "Pay Attention Inside Now".

A voice like thunder
declaring to somebody—
Jesse Jackson screamed, "I am somebody.
Though trials may try me,
Though systems deny me,
Though crowds overlook me,
My God still defines me."

If every child learned
that sacred decree,
perhaps fewer crowds
would stand silently.
If every young girl
heard truth from her Mother—
you need not compete
to diminish another.

For Iyanla once whispered
with wisdom and grace:
When a woman forgets
her divine resting place,
she searches for value
in someone else's reflection,
mistaking applause
for Holy affection.

But daughters of promise,
hear Heaven's decree—
your worth is not argued
in rivalry.
Your crown is not crafted
from someone's defeat;
true Queens never rise
by pulling down feet.

And I remember another voice
steady and strong—
a woman who told us
we all belong.
Michelle O. wrote plainly
for all to Become:
"No one can make you feel small
when you know where you're from."
She spoke of Becoming—
not loud, but aware,
that dignity grows
when courage is there.
She told every daughter
and every young son:
your story's still rising—
it's not yet done.

But somewhere between
the lesson and the street,
we boarded the Wrong bus
and took the Wrong seat.
Running on fumes
of empathy and grace,
scrolling through sorrow
with a glowing face.
Broken halos
rolling through the night,
while Heaven keeps asking,
"Who will stand for right?"

Did our hearts stop?
Or are we disoriented still?
Walking through life
without moral will?
Because Leadership whispers
in every direction—
wake up, my people,
you've suffered a deadly infection.

But healing begins
with a truth we remember—
stronger than anger,
brighter than ember.
Teach every child
with courage and love:
"I am somebody—
designed from above."
Teach every daughter
her crown cannot fall,
for God placed a kingdom
inside her soul's call.
Teach every son
to guard life and breath,
for dignity's duty
is stronger than death.

Then maybe the next time
a crowd gathers near,
someone will step forward
instead of just fear.
A voice will rise
where silence once stood—
"I am somebody…
and you are somebody…
So today we choose
to do what is Good." 

Mary...

Why do you weep?
Why do tears fall softly
when the night is deep?
Is it the memory
of an Angel's light
stepping through your doorway
one Holy night?

"Fear not, Mary,"
the messenger said,
"You will bear a Child—
though no man shared your bed."

Favor found you early,
but favor is not cheap—
for Blessings sometimes come
with rumors that creep.

They whispered in the market,
they whispered in the street:
"How can a virgin Mother
carry life so sweet?"

Mary walked through murmurs,
through doubt and disgrace,
carrying Heaven's promise
in a very fragile place.
And sometimes it makes me tremble,
tremble in my soul—
how God plants a miracle
where doubt takes control.

Mama...
Why do you cry?
Is it the memory
of a Bethlehem sky?
A stable full of straw,
a manger cold and bare,
yet the Hope of all creation
was breathing softly there.

Those little hands you held
when the world was still asleep
are the same hands stretched on a Cross
while soldiers mocked and stole their keep.
The baby that you cradled
in a Mother's gentle sleep
now hangs beneath the Heavens—
Mary... why do you weep?

You watched Him heal the blind,
watched mercy fill his speech,
yet hatred built a hill
no love could ever reach.
The crowd stood watching quietly
as darkness covered day—
some shouting for his death,
some turning eyes away.
And sometimes it makes us tremble,
tremble in our soul—
how people watch the suffering
yet never take control.

Mama...
your tears did not end there.
Your cry still echoes
in the Mother's Holy prayer.
In cities across America
where sirens break the night,
where Mothers wait at windows
until their sons are in sight.
Black mothers know well this trembling,
know this ancient cry—
when Hope walks out the doorway
and danger passes by.
They pray through unemployment,
through streets where bullets speak,
through silent bedroom battles
when despair grows very weak.
Some stand beside a casket,
some stand before a judge.
Some watch their children struggle
while civic systems will not budge.
Of the Faith and loyalty that robs—
Mama cried when her boys couldn't find jobs.
She smiled when her girls left with their new "boss"—
Mama didn't realize, they would be trafficked in Norcross.
The crime wasn't horrendous,
But Mama screamed when she heard her boys' sentence.
On that Thursday, the phone loudly rang—
Her boy was on the rail ledge,
Life's "saxophone" began to sang—
Mama's prayers resolved his Life's wedge.
And sometimes it makes us tremble,
tremble in our soul—
how crosses still are rising
where justice lost control.

But Mary...
listen closely—
the story did not end.
For Heaven had a morning
death could not defend.
The stone rolled from the graveyard,
the darkness lost its claim—
the child once born in scandal
rose wrapped in Holy flame.

The same Son pierced and wounded,
the same Son buried deep,
rose up with resurrection
to comfort those who weep.

So Mothers who are crying
through sorrow dark and long—
remember God still writes
a resurrection song.

Mary...
Dry your eyes.
For tears may fall on Friday,
but Sunday always rise.

And sometimes it makes me tremble...
tremble in my soul—
how God turns broken stories
into glory made whole.

I was drowning... not just in tide, but in touch,
In a sea of love that demanded too much.
What felt like affection became undertow,
I gave all I had—still had nowhere to go.

"Help me!" I cried like a voice in that song,
Where loving so hard somehow goes so wrong.
A sea of emotions, no shoreline in sight,
Where day felt like dusk and noon turned to night.

I was drowning in you... in me... in the mix,
In promises spoken but not meant to fix.
Like waves that keep crashing with no sense of shore,
Every "I love you" just pulled me in more.

Wrong bus, right reasons—I boarded that ride,
Thinking love was the current, not something to guide.
But baggage got heavy—unchecked at the gate,
And I paid with my peace for a counterfeit fate.

I was knee-deep in feelings, then over my head,
In waters where clarity quietly bled.
Like Peter, I stepped... but then fear took control,
And doubt became anchors that swallowed my soul.

See, drowning ain't always a violent descent,
Sometimes it's slow... where your strength gets spent.
It's smiling in public, but gasping inside,
It's love that looks real—but is hollow with pride.

"Pay Attention Inside Now"—that pain spoke aloud,
Even while I was trying to look strong in the crowd.
Because seas don't just form from storms up above—
Some oceans are made from the overflow of love.

But then… in the depths of that emotional flood,
Came a Hand not of water—but mercy and blood.
Not to condemn me for where I had been,
But to pull me up out of what pulled me in.

From drowning… to drawn out—like Moses of old,
Lifted from waters that should've took hold.
The same thing that tried to consume my breath,
Became the testimony that conquered death.

He drew me out of relationships built on demand,
Out of needing approval just to feel like a man.
Out of codependent currents that weakened my frame,
Where love had conditions and grace had no name.

From drowning in love… to being drawn into Truth,
Where love doesn't suffocate—but resurrects you.
Where peace is the shoreline and purpose the ground,
And you don't lose yourself just to keep someone around.

I was drawn out of caves where my silence would hide,
Where hurt was my partner and shame was my guide.
But darkness was training what light would reveal,
And the wound that was hidden... He started to heal.

So don't touch me yet—I'm still learning to stand,
Still drying from waters I didn't command.
But I'm rising, I'm breathing, I'm reclaiming my sight,
No longer just floating—I'm walking in Light.

And if you're drowning tonight in a sea of "I care,"
But your soul's going under while they're unaware—
Hear this: not all love is meant for your lungs,
Some waters look warm—but will swallow your tongue.

But there's a God who sees where your tears overflow,
Who steps in your sea and says, "Child, let's go."
He won't let you perish in what felt so right—
He'll draw you out gently... and restore your fight.

From drowning... to destiny, from chaos to call,
From losing yourself... to surrendering all.
Because the same God who let you fall through—
Is the God who will draw you out... and make you brand new.

Will He?

That question rises, when the night gets long,
When prayers feel heavy and the answers feel gone.
Will He show up, when the bills say "No",
When the door slams shut and the road runs slow?

Will He be God, when God is all I've got,
When Faith feels thin, and fear feels bothered and hot?
When the tears fall faster than hope can run,
Will He still be faithful, when I'm with child and undone?

Those four walls could see and feel
What I could not—
It was over quickly, after too many a shot.

Scripture whispers what doubt tries to un-glue:
"He's not a man, that He should be untrue."
The promise stands, though the ground may shake—
If He said it, He will not break.

Will She?

Will she stay when the shine wears off,
When love costs more, than a social post or a Roth?
Will she speak truth, not just what's kind,
When honesty risks a 'peace of mind'?

Will she forgive when the wound is deep,
When the apology comes, so very cheap?
Will she choose love over being right,
Stand in the storm, not flee this fight?

Will she love, when Life would disrupt?
When she stay, when he can't get it "up"?
Because covenant isn't built on convenience or cheer,
It's built in the valley, not the crowd's loud cheer.

Faithfulness is proven, when nobody's clapping,
When staying is harder, than cheatin' and 'capping'.

But then the question turns—quiet, plain, and true:
Not will He?
Not will She?
But will I do, what I said I'd do?

Will I pray when the answer delays,
Or quit on God, after a few hard days?
Will I trust when I cannot trace,
Or demand a map, before starting my pace?

Will I love when it's not returned,
Give Grace when I feel beaten and burned?
Will I keep showing up, heart in my hand,
When obedience isn't, what I had planned?

Will I walk by Faith and not by sight,
Stand in the dark and still choose light?
Will I forgive, release, and let go,
Or carry an infection in blood that would flow?

Sometimes the miracle God wants to do
Isn't changing them—
It's transforming you.

She asks, "Will he open the door?"
He asks, "Will she walk through it or stomp the floor?"
She asks, "Will he change by the days?"
He asks, "Will she love me anyways?"

God's already proven, He's faithful and true,
The Cross answered forever, "I never withdrew."

So now the question that shapes your destiny
It isn't about them—
It's about You.

Will I trust? Will I stay?
Will I obey, when it costs me my way?

Because Heaven is waiting, not on will He or will She...
But on the courage of the Heavenly sky,
The urgent Questions are:
"Will God and Will I?" 

Is your name "Somebody"… or "no one in the crowd"?
Do you whisper your worth… or dare to say it loud?
Do you hide in the shadows, hoping not to be seen,
While bleeding through battles no one knows where you've been?

Twelve long years… she carried her pain,
A silent hemorrhage—loss without gain.
Doctors took money, but couldn't give peace,
She paid for relief… but found no release.

Weak in her body, but strong in belief,
She pressed through the people, though buried in grief.
They called her "unclean," they labeled her shame,
But Heaven still knew her true hidden name.

Not "outcast"… not "broken"… not "lost in the flood,"
But "Daughter of Promise"… though drenched in her blood.
She said, "If I touch Him… just the hem of His thread,
Maybe this issue… will finally be dead."

Not a handshake… not a stage… not a seat in the front,
Just a reach through resistance—that desperate hunt.
And virtue flowed out…
Not because she was loud—
But because she believed… in the middle of the crowd.

Jesus stopped everything… turned all around,
"Who touched Me?" He asked, though many were found.
But He wasn't searching for hands in the press—
He was calling out faith in the midst of distress.

She fell down trembling… "It was me," she confessed,
"I've been bleeding in silence… no peace, no rest."
And the Master replied, with authority and love,
"Daughter… your faith has been seen above."

Now let me ask you—what is your name?
Is it tied to your wound? Is it chained to your shame?
Are you labeled by loss? By what didn't go right?
Or defined by the darkness you fight every night?

Or will you declare—like Jesse Jackson once cried,
"I am Somebody!"—no longer denied.
Not because life has been easy or fair,
Not because crowds have applauded you there—
But because God formed you… breathed in your clay,
And called you with purpose before your first day.

You've been on the wrong bus for the right reasons too long,
Carrying baggage that doesn't belong.
You've stood at the X-ray, afraid of the scan,
But healing requires revealing the plan.

PAIN—Pay Attention Inside Now—
That's where your "Somebody" is calling you out.
You've been bleeding in boardrooms, bleeding in bed,
Smiling in public while dying in your head.

But the issue isn't fatal—unless you stay still,
There's healing in movement… there's power in will.
So press through the crowd of opinions and fear,
Press past the voices that say "stay right here."

Press through your past, your failures, your doubt,
Because your "Somebody" is trying to come out.
You are not "nobody"… lost in the flood,
You are covenant-crafted… covered in blood.

Not just surviving—but chosen to be,
A testimony walking in victory.
So when life asks again, "Who do you claim to be?"
Don't answer with weakness—respond boldly and free:

"I am Somebody—healed by His touch,
I've been through too much to still doubt this much.
I am Somebody—not because I'm loud,
But because I pressed through and stood from the crowd."

And just like that woman… your story will shift,
From bleeding and breaking… to rising and lift.
From hidden in pain… to publicly named,
From "issue of blood"… to "faith that was famed."

So say it again—until doubt has to flee:
"I am Somebody—because God chose me."
And if they ask how… tell them this plainly:
"I touched Him by faith... and He answered me."

Yes... your name is "Somebody." 

Can you solve...
the calculus of fig leaves?
What do you add...
when your soul subtracts peace?

I — The Garden Equation

Adam...
you were clothed in glory
before you calculated shame,
But the moment you sinned—
you started solving life
without My name.

You added leaves
to subtract your fear,
multiplied hiding
'cause I was near.
You integrated silence
where truth should speak,
derived a version of yourself
that was fragile and weak.

You passed the fruit—
but failed the test,
Now you dressing wounds
you never confessed.

Can you solve...
the calculus of fig leaves?

II — The Miami Exam

Now let me walk this thing
from Eden... to Miami streets,
From fig leaves in the garden
to calculus in classroom seats.

Eight classes on your plate—
pressure rising like a tide,
family pulling from Jacksonville,
burdens heavy on your side.

You sat for seven exams—
felt good, thought you passed,
But that eighth one...
Advanced Differential Calculus—
that one hit you fast.

You walked out "pretty good"…
but didn't study like you should—
confidence high, preparation low,
thinking feelings meant you're good.

Then the call came through—
Registrar on the line:
"Seven passed... but one you failed—
you must return this time."

III — The Fig Leaves Return

And just like Adam—
you reached for leaves…
Tried to hide the failure,
tried to mask what grieves.

First you covered it—
then you blamed the load,
Family, pressure, distance—
anything but the road.

Then truth slipped out—
you hadn't prepared,
You walked into a test
like a man unpaired.

You were Adam again—
in a rented room,
Sewing fig leaves
in silence and gloom.

IV — The Night Has Purpose

But Sunday came—
and so did the Word,
A choir was singing
what your spirit heard.

"If There Were No Nights?"
the preacher declared,
That pressure births purpose
when a soul is spared.

That burdens bring blessing,
that darkness can teach,
That failure's a classroom
grace uses to reach.

And suddenly your calculus
began to change—
God introduced purpose
into your pain.

V — The Divine Recalculation

Monday morning—
you walked in truth,
No more fig leaves,
no more excuse.

"I didn't graduate…"
you said out loud,
No hiding behind
intellect or crowd.

And instead of rejection—
grace picked up the phone,
Made a call to a Dean
you had never known.

Provisionally placed—
demoted, yet seen,
From Technical Assistant
back toward the dream.

VI — Solving for Redemption

You studied this time—
no shortcuts, no mask,
Put in the work
that identity asks.

Highest grades posted,
restored your name,
From failure to favor—
but God did the same.

From shame to instructor,
from hiding to lead,
From fig leaves to favor—
from pressure to seed.

VII — The True Formula

So write this down
where your soul can see:
Failure + Ownership = Authority
Shame – Truth = Bondage
Truth + Grace = Freedom

And here's the one
you must believe:
"Covering by God...
is greater than fig leaves."

So Adam...
Maurice...
Man...
When you fail the test—
what do you reach for?
Leaves...
or the Lord?

Because the question still stands
from Book of Genesis:
"Where are you?"
Not your grades,
not your past,
But your identity—
will it last?

Who's helping you… when the night feels long,
When your weak feels right and your right feels wrong?
When your prayer sounds tired, like déjà vu—
"God… it's me again… I'm calling You…"

Not a stranger's voice, not a distant friend,
But the same strong hand you need again.
When the road runs dry and your strength feels thin,
You whisper His name… and He answers again.

Who's helping you… when love calls through,
"I just called to say… I still love you"?
But the line's full static, the world's too loud,
Hate got a megaphone, truth ain't allowed.

Bombs in the distance, but pain up close,
Smiles on faces… but hurting the most.
We got crowds that gather when people fall,
Phones in the air—but no help at all.

Recording the pain just to get a view,
But won't lift a hand… to help pull you through.
So tell me the truth when it's just you and you—
Is it God that's helping… or just the crowd around you?

Who's helping you… when you're back again,
On that same old bus with familiar sin?
"You've ridden this bus for free before,"
Same stop, same struggle, same closed door.

Same heavy baggage, same silent pain,
Same sunshine promise... followed by rain.
Same "this time's different"—but deep inside,
You know it's the same old compromised ride.

Because help ain't always a hand or a hug,
Sometimes it's truth that pulls on the rug.
Sometimes it's conviction shaking your soul,
Telling you plainly—you're out of control.

I remember nights when my pockets were thin,
Philadelphia cold... and the trouble I was in.
No money for fare, no ride in sight,
Just me and regret in the middle of night.

Then out of nowhere—a bus rolled through,
Sign said "Out of Service"… but it stopped too.
The driver looked once… then looked again,
Said, "Ain't you that man… from way back when?"

No fare, no speech, just grace on display—
But even free rides got a price to pay.
'Cause while I rode free… I paid in me—
In discipline lost... and identity.

So who's helping you—be honest now,
The one who comforts… or the One who shows you how?
The one who soothes you and lets you stay,
Or the One who corrects you and makes a way?

Moses had zeal—but buried a man,
Peter had passion—but missed the plan.
Jonah ran fast—but couldn't escape,
Joseph had dreams—but chains shaped his fate.

So help ain't always gentle and sweet,
Sometimes it knocks you off your feet.
Sometimes it cuts just to make you whole,
Realign your heart… restore your soul.

Who's helping you… when the choice is clear,
When growth costs pain… and comfort stays near?
When grace says, "Come"… but flesh says, "Stay,"
And you stand at the stop called "Change Today."

You've ridden this ride too long, my friend,
Calling cycles "life"… when they need to end.
Grace picked you up… but truth pulls the cord,
Saying, "This is your stop—don't ignore the Lord."

So next time you ask, "Who's helping me?"
Check what you're becoming… not just what you see.
Does it grow your faith? Does it stretch your view?
Does it make you better… or just comfortable you?

Because Jesus don't just watch you fall,
He answers your prayer… He answers your call.
He don't just film you losing your way—
He lifts you up... and shows you the way.

So when life gets heavy and nights feel blue,
And the question returns... "Who's helping you?"
Don't answer quick—let your life speak through...
Because the real help...
Will transform you.

Once… it felt like summer rain,
Soft and sweet, but laced with pain.
She said forever, held me tight—
Then disappeared into the night.

And you were left with questions deep,
Conversations you still keep.
Echoes in a lonely room,
Love in bloom… then sudden doom.

Al asked, "How can you mend?"—we felt that cry,
A wounded truth you can't deny.
How do you stop the falling tears,
When trust dissolves your hopes and fears?

Twice… I said, "This time I've learned,"
Guarded heart, but still it burned.
Played it wise, or so we thought—
But love don't move by what you've taught.

He smiled like peace, He spoke like Grace,
Heaven shining in his face.
But storms can hide behind the sun,
And leave you shattered when they're done.

Now pacing floors at 2 a.m.,
Trying to piece together myself again.
Singing softly, asking why—
How can a person love, then say goodbye?

Three times... now I see the thread,
Not just what they did—but what we fed.
The need to rush, the fear to lose,
The silent signs we chose to refuse.

Love ain't blind—it's just ignored,
When loneliness becomes our Lord.
You gave your all, but missed the cue—
Sometimes the Healing starts with you.

So how do you mend a broken heart?
You don't just fix it—you restart.
You gather pieces, slow and true,
And let God reconstruct you.

Once, twice, three times—we fell apart,
But every fall revealed our heart.
And though love left us in the dark...
We found a light
inside the spark.

So if you've been dumped—don't count the loss,
Count every lesson, every Cross.
Because what broke you didn't end—
It introduced you...
to your mend.

What are these wounds in your hands, so deep?
Did the night cut you? Did the wolves not sleep?
No, these scars—they were not from foes,
But from ones I loved, from friends I chose.

Not strangers passing on some distant street,
But voices that once made my joy complete.
They sat at my table, broke my bread,
But left me bleeding, love turned red.

I trusted them with my soul's soft skin,
But they pierced me gently, from within.
Not by swords or stones they came,
But with silence, with shame, with a smiling name.

Judas kissed me beneath the moon,
Promised loyalty, then betrayed me soon.
Peter swore he'd never fall,
Then denied me before the rooster's call.

Oh, the house of friends—a holy place,
Yet pain can hide in a kind face.
Sometimes the sharpest wounds we bear
Are born in rooms where hearts should care.

But hear this truth, dear broken heart,
God knows your wounds, each torn-apart.
He sees the gash behind your grin,
And He's not afraid to enter in.

He too was bruised by those He loved,
Nailed by hands, He once had hugged.
So if you've been stabbed, by trusted hands,
He understands—yes, He understands.

Your scars, like His, will one day shine—
A testimony, not a sign
Of failure, shame, or bitter end,
But of Grace that broke and made you mend.

So lift your hands—wounded, yes—
But washed in mercy's soft caress.
Let your tears fall, let healing start,
From the Friend who never breaks your heart.