FairWriter

Satan has a tactic that kills God's people. It is a horrifying gift he gives to the saints that rots their flesh and weakens their spirits. Satan uses this weapon often, and we cling to it. It makes us bleed, weakens our pulse, and makes it hard to breath. He gives us decisions, and we are fooled to believe that we must decide.

Save Me Copyright Tamara Peachy 2012 Song on Abortion Verse 1 She wants the fire of our greatest star and the cold of the moon. She wants the silence of my talkative tongue and to stay in the room. She wears the finest clothes and is saturated in perfume. I’m here waiting to be seen, I’ll be erased soon. Chorus Mothers work hard to be free. They have sex for pleasure and company. They have bodies that tempt And legs that spread. Why would they need me? Why would they have me? Why would they carry me? I’m just a disposable baby. Verse 2 She wants the dance of the club and the drink of the bar. She wants her country back and her voice to be heard afar. She wants to steal the power from men and everything in between. I’m here waiting to be seen, but I’ll be erased soon. Chorus Mothers work hard to be free. They have sex for pleasure and company. They have bodies that tempt And legs that spread. Why would they need me? Why ...

Globally exposed by an invention of social selfishness. Known to the world by an addicting euphoria click away. Camera shy but given away in the hope of acceptance and witty comments. Black universe, bright screen.

Can no longer live as if I lived during the makings of the Bible. As if I have a heart like Mary or Ruth or hands like Esther or Rahab. I don't relate to Him like Eve. Dear Lord, Let's converse like I met You in my mother's womb. Like You laugh at my jokes and smell my bad breath. Like You know I love the taste of ice cream, but rarely eat it because it makes me gain weight. Like I watch late night television, and must butter my popcorn. Like I am not following in the footsteps of some woman, magnificent and great. But making my own path with you inside.

Spirit, I have fallen for You. I have fallen for Your flash of light and Your sacred silence filled with truth. I have fallen for Your aggressive evangelism and Your advancing kingdom. I have fallen for Your tender welcome and Your final goodbye. I have fallen for Your mystery and Your delayed explanation as to why. I have fallen for You: to death, hell, and the grave, the Resurrection, and then becoming Your Bride.

Perfection is God's weakness, for we fear His flawless nature and avoid conversation. As we reach, we assume we taint Him, blacken Him, mar Him He wants our shared tears and bruises Yet, we hide them under our eyelids God, holy was the flaw in You. The crucifixion was my ability to own you.

Hold me accountable for all that I do. That way I will be as holy as You. Make my steps perfect. That way I can look like You. Make every sermon accurate. So I don't look stupid or ill-informed. Don't let me meet a sinner. I don't want to be stained by their blood. Make me Holy like never before. So I can reek of pride and hell. Make my intentions selfish and human.

I hate to inform you, but Eve is not pretty. Travel to paradise, you may expect a thin, perky boobed, ruby- red lipped vixen, but she owned tough hands, muscular shoulders, and intelligent eyes. Eve was a helper, not to stare at, not to drool at not to lust over. No Eve was your helper, well informed capable prepared.

Nature, battlefield! Tree roots fight for boundaries. Weeds eat the nutrients meant for flowers. dead, dirt, ground path suffocated by a runner's sneaker. Nature is murdered by relaxing stroll.

Now that you are dead, I will be your author. To tell your sad or happy story, as I see it. To carry your memory... to share your stolen life with ignorant others. I now orate a poem that is a reality, a tragedy. The next generation will hear my bias blood-curdling cry. To cry your story onto the blank page. To receive my living  as a writer.

Why does justice hurt like hell, Mama? Why does justice hurt like hell? Why does the truth do so much damage, Papa? Why does the truth do so much damage? Why does righteousness burn like a fire, Daughter? Why does righteousness burn like a fire? Why does love sting like death, Son? Why does love sting like death?

Dear Lover, You love is beyond me. You rest at my shoulder, and I don't even feel Your breath, or know You are obsessed with me. My guilt swallows me, while You redeem me. My anger is lessened by Your grace and mercy. Your love is a mystery. It arcs like a flash of lightening - threatening and yet familiar. Dear Lover, Your love is beyond me. closer than a brother sweeter than a sister More like a deity.

There are numbers out there that hurt my ears. Numbers that sound like screeching owls. Numbers that sound like rabid dogs. Numbers that add up to catastrophe and assault. There are numbers out the that soothe my ears. Numbers that sound like honey dripping down. Numbers that sound like water cooling heat. Good against evil Savior and defeat. There is a number out there that has no connection to the fight, but I dare not utter it for then there would be no fight.

Had enough Too much possibility Too much potential Had enough Too much fame Too much publicity Had enough Too much pregnancy Too much Photoshop Had enough money to make it to the top.