FairWriter

I walked into a parking lot, holding tight to my toddler’s hand. He wiggled his fingers loose. Running and giggling, as if this escape was an innocent game. He wanted me to catch him. “No! You come back here!” He misread my discipline: only a playful tactic assuring his capture. He did not listen. He ran behind a parked car, shielding his precious face. I caught up to him, smacked his little hand, told him to never run in a parking lot again! An old lady had observed the scene. She spoke, “My, my! That little man must exhaust his mommy.” I didn’t respond to her casual dismissal of the rescue that just took place. Her inability to see the relief flooding my blood. How she shamed my little gem, suggesting that his life exhausts mine. How could his little legs ever outrun mine? This old lady is all the men who remained with their families until work became more important. Then they justified thei...

Your picture on the wall is about to fall as I shake heaven and earth during an afternoon dust, removing fly's eyes, cat dander, and ancient house particles. My memories dance as your immovable pupils and stationary smile awake repressed happiness. You are a cruel picture now, dead sister. Happiness and life imprisoned in a frame.

My manic brain. Fragile, like a glass half -full of blood and chemistry, falling off a kitchen table like milk spilled on a floor that I can't cry over. My medicated brain. Safe, which gets straight A's and golden metals, the tiara and the standing ovation.

Close your eyes, but this will not erase your lust. Plug your ears, but still your thoughts defiled. Bite your tongue, but still your words vile. Bow your head, but no prayer said. Cross your heart, and dead. Sinner, heathen, viper, lost. Your innocence lost. You do not deserve. Till mercy.

Delusional sin of hate cuts life short. A victim a small girl with a red crayon writing her name. She is unsure of her future or what snack is in her lunch box. A victim The shooter's mother who was made to protect him from the demons, dark spaces, and to simply nurture him through teenage boredom. But she is no more either, bleeding red. A victim Now the shooter turns the gun on himself. Now society judges his death as perfect punishment until the Son of God appear. A victim God

His chest is against my back, a contemporary Christ. A supernatural man laughing at dirty jokes, making old maids blush. A king whose kingdom is in the clouds, but also with improper thought. A Jesus who understands culture and shock value. He would vote for the legalization of marijuana and the illegality of abortion. A lamb who has a slashed throat like all the crime shows. A lion who is featured on all the National Geographic specials. A God who wasted his religiosity and orthodoxy at our feet. A God who took up skinny ties and skinny jeans for another soul to be saved.

Thunder, do not leave me. I need your hit. I need your rage. I need your sudden struck, hit, hot. Don't leave me here: mundane, singing lullaby, nurture, sleep. Thunder, do not escape. Bring back your raging slap. Thunder, you running with me on that hidden railroad. Your rage keeps me running. Don't leave me here or I will sleep and captured, I will be. Thunder, do not dare you leave me. You are my master who keeps me running.

God, do You really want eternity? Forever remembering us and our flaws. Hearing the screams of hell, and the off-key chorus of heaven? God, do you ever want Your life to end? Simply give up. Take the path of Judas, the rope pulled tight? Throw in the towel. Rest in peace. Or is Your life the raging fire that consumes even water? A zeal that cannot end even if wanted.

Since the earth took her violently, all will fade similarly. Her brightness ended, so all will blacken. I now know the final of all mankind. since my sister's death. She is the prediction of all life. For if her fate was decided so terribly, then all men will die in likeness. For she was pure and sweet, giving and understanding. All men will die in tragedy and live peacefully and eternally.

Pregnant words in your womb. Contractions come too soon. Everyone needs to know! Sadly, no one cares. Critical crazy… named insanity… All the medications will end the euphoria and soothe the terror. Your extremes will become mundane. Your radical will become palatable. Cherished memories tucked in your pocket, Chemicals hide your truth, the voice duck taped in the back of the trunk. She needs to scream, “Kidnapped!” “Trapped!” “Needing to get out!” "Raped and pillaged" "Enslaved and filled with doubt!"

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.