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We need to have control. Not control on how we’re taught or what we wear, but on the weapons put on display to be seen everywhere.
In our youth we are weeds Growing, unwanted In pots made for ourselves From the collarbones of giants. Tenacious, stubborn Stronger than flowers Who grow when invited And die when told.
We, the young aged by hate, torn by lonesome longing for days hidden in future history, Stalked by a past twisted and turned by beliefs and banter... ugly. We, the few jaded and new,
Soldier of Christ I tend to see too many people going through their relationship with Christ like it's a job. Being a part-time Christian, but expecting a full time God.
My sister, the young, little, skinny bundle of innocence. When i think of her, i think of all the things that i wish to be. All the things i wish i could have been.
Don’t take no for an answer, and we can change this place. Make them believe in love and second chances. Teach them what it means to be alive.
n TaNia Tribble My body, It’s supposed to be my temple but in many ways I befoul it My body, my temple, my resting place, my place of assurance
Its amazing what these young girls go through. Used to chase the light skin boys, snap back and some tattoos. Then you grow up with nothing to lose, trynna make an excuse on why your refrigerators empty, with no food.