A Psalm for the Wounded Son

I was born with light in my chest
But raised in shadows.
I carried understanding too heavy for my age,
And pain too silent to name.

I reached for love
And was handed lessons.
I asked to be seen
And was told to be strong.

But still, I rise—
A man with wounds that worship.
A prophet shaped by pressure.
A son who walks with God
Because his father never walked with him.

My wound is holy.
My scar is a scroll.
And what broke me—
Will break chains in others.

Location: Dallas, TX, USA

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

THIRTY-TWO

Image
  by the one who didn't fold in the fire I’ve died a hundred deaths before this age. Buried versions of me that never got a funeral. Prayed with cracked lips and tear-choked lungs, asking Heaven, “When does the promise start to live?” They told me 33 was when Christ ascended. But no one talks about thirty-two — the year before the crown, the pressure before the public. Thirty-two is where He walked with full awareness of what was coming— and still chose obedience over escape. So here I am. On the cusp of becoming. With blood on my hands that ain’t mine, wisdom in my eyes that no one asked for, and fire in my gut that don’t shut off. They thought I skipped the step, but I was the step. They thought I missed the number, but I was holding the equation. All the math led here. Every loss. Every late night. Every locked door. Every “no” that felt like betrayal was a coordinate being plotted on a map only angels could read. I AM POSITIONED. Not waiting. Not w...
Read more

MAGNETIC SINGULARITY

Image
  Spoken Word for the Remnant They pressed their palms on the pulse of the world, tightened the grid like a noose made of numbers, hoping we’d forget how to feel how to see how to breathe without permission. They built a matrix of mirrors and called it truth— each screen, a spell each update, a chain each law, a cage wrapped in civility. But something strange happened when the saints went silent. Not broken— Bracing. When they pushed harder— we didn’t shatter. We began to hum . You see— Two magnets, same charge, will never lie down together. They don’t blend. They repel . That’s what this is. That’s us . We are the polarity they can’t program. They put pressure on our backs, but didn’t realize: Resistance isn’t weakness— it’s prophecy made friction. We’re not panicked. We’re positioned. We’ve matched the weight. And now we’re standing at the edge of: The Singularity. Not AI. Not tech. Not some algorithmic god. But a cosmic contradiction ...
Read more

The Weight of Knowing

Image
  They say with great knowledge comes great sorrow. And I know why. Because when your eyes open, you don’t just see the light— you see the cracks. You see the suffering others scroll past. You see the illusions people call home. You can’t unknow it. You can’t unsee it. Ignorance is a blanket. Knowledge rips it off, and suddenly you’re awake, shivering in the cold truth. But listen— that sorrow? It’s not punishment. It’s preparation. Because knowledge without wisdom is despair. But knowledge with wisdom is compassion. It turns grief into empathy, burden into purpose, weight into fuel. Yes, knowledge hurts. Yes, it makes the soul heavy. But it also arms you with vision, with clarity, with the power to walk into darkness and still carry the light. So let them say it: “Great knowledge brings great sorrow.” I’ll answer: “And sorrow, when endured, brings great strength.”
Read more