Queen of the depressed kingdom,
her royalty doesn't look good on her.
She is a queen of a despised world,
the beads around her neck,
are the pieces of her grounded dignity,
her crown of thorns is not like the Messiah's,
Messiah's crown of thorns gave us victory and glory,
but hers adds to the hurts, pains and wounds.
Daily she carries her cross all alone,
not even a Simon, sent to help,
the weight of the cross alone,
with multitudes of tears, terrible pasts
horrible present and hopeless future,
all sending her disgusting looks,
as they escort her to her Golgotha,
where her predecessors from the depressed kingdom
widely open their arms to welcome her.
But she is sorry, isn't she?
She is! She can't be the version of a child her mother wanted,
She is sorry! She fails her father,
She is sorry! She disappoints herself,
She is sorry! She can't fit into the fashion everyone wanted,
She is sorry! But who cares about her being sorry?
No one needs it, they want to see her become who they knew she could be
She knows she wouldn't resurrect on the third day,
neither will she spend forty days on earth after her death,
neither is there a certainty that she will be laid in a tomb
after she hangs herself.
but her mind is all made up, she can't bear it anymore.
She just wants to exit, not as an icon or to glory,
she wants to be gone too soon.
Laying down the ropes of hope she had held,
to pull the ropes in her neck
as she gulps her sour wine.
She didn't know that stumbling blocks can become stepping stones,
if she fights for life,
if she tries hard to catch her breath,
if she struggles to maintain her sanity,
her purpose can still be achieved if she endures a little more,
will someone please tell her that suicide isn't an option?
As she is just a moment away from doing the unthinkable
Thank you for your time.
My pen doesn't bleed, it speaks, with speed and ease.
Still me,
My tongue is like the pen of a ready writer.
Olawalium; (Love's chemical content, in human form). Take a dose today: doctor's order.