Dear Lord,
Forgive me.
I have become the people I detest.
In my detest, I was tested with the same
test;
I failed.
In my mind,
I have thought the same thoughts that made
them thorns.
Their thorns are on their tongues;
My barb is worse, for I bite back with no
bark
Will you assure me
That you take away the pressure in no small
measure,
That I will regard and hate not,
That I will be content and quench contest,
Run between my lines and look down only to
help the fallen?
Shall you not give me some vial
that holds appreciation impartial?
The elixir that will clean the rust
Off my hateful heart ,
Like lather displaces stain
Love me again, dear Lord
For in my occupation with a speck,
I have forgotten to love myself
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