I loathe the times I cannot write
precisely when
I need to,
but it won’t come.
My words escape my pen
crumple my paper
and mock me.
Emotions wrought bring silence,
not one word profound
though passion flares with prayers.
I beg You to stop
cancer riddled blood cells
daughters tempted by rebellion
beautiful breasts attacked by cancer
and mother's suffering to breathe.
To roll up my sleeves
and nail these to simple words
hardly does them justice
let alone, cure.
let alone, cure.
I swim upstream
and my words
spawn nothing.
But to you, oh Lord
I swim.
But to you, oh Lord
I swim.
patricia spreng
(fix my eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of my faith.... I will let him do the writing.)
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