To The Weary Ones

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To the mother, to the child, to the lover, to the fool,
 
to the broken pieces walking, pretending to be whole.
 
I’ve been there before; I’ve sold off my soul,
 
for a second of believing that I was in control.
 
 
I’ve been in your shoes, and walked a mile too long, 
 
they say that we’re weak but we’re just sick of being strong.
 
The note written a thousand times but always thrown away.
 
Have we become that note? Written prayers on flesh, left to decay.
 
 
The words have lost their meaning but still we plead and beg,
 
for mercy in this life, or the next; to not feel so dead.
 
The sun signals another act, the daily pantomime,
 
of yes ma’am, no sir, I’m sorry, I’m just tired, really, I’m fine.
 
 
Times are tough and the world demands that we put our hearts up for hire,
 
they return them with crimson sweat stains and threats of the holy pyre.
 
Yet we are the lost generation; narcissistic, hopeless, and loose.
 
Forbidden to love ourselves, some pick the lord and some the noose. 
 
 
To the sister, to the brother, to the father, to the son,
 
to the eyes that flow like rivers, crying out to everyone.
 
I’ve been there before, but my story isn’t done.
 
I will weep and wail, then stand and write until our day is won.

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