so many nicks, cuts, bumps and bruises
not a moment to breathe without bumping into it.
that broken, sad child is me.
only wanting love and peace.
but instead they pick me a part.
stab me in the back to eat out my heart.
plucking each hair of imperfection
lest i walk freely in some imagined deception
your critical eye
where were your fingers when i needed a touch of grace?
where were your hands to wipe my tear streamed face?
your sharp tongue
where were your lips when i needed a kind word?
where was your kiss to soothe where it hurts?
provision is not an excuse for your derision.
protection should not be your reasons for oppression.
but how can the wounded heal,
without tending to themselves?
how can the wounded hear
over their own silent cries for help?
teachquelle 