Jesus beckons to my inner child and says to come and rest my weary head whatever brokenness, whatever trials he before me has prepared a bed
if only we should believe and call Him with His name we may lay down what's bereaved and find solace in Him without blame
join him with his flock and follow in his ways our hearts to him unlock and he shall enter on the darkest days
to guide us in all our lives see us through the mighty storms with his angels besides our cares and woes holy shorn
for He is love God's begotten son of right and with the holy spirit above His yoke is easy and His burden is light
***
Matthew 11:28–30 (NIV):
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Bible Gateway+1
Matthew 11:28–30 (KJV):
“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” Bible Gateway+1
It's called a penny of love I am penny laying on the side of the road pick me up you want me to hold I'm a penny I know I'm not worth much but aren't you dying for a touch I forgot the rest jesus told me that poem was written on my feelings about myself when a girl called me some mean names and that poem was worth a million dollars But someone stole it I left it at my school in a purple folder and someone stole it she told me did I want to make copies of the poem I said no one copy is good enough I would just put it in my purple folder at school and then someone stole it
Meaningless moon-dipped dreams in chaotic surroundings. Childhood rituals of chastity and love wrapped in a butterfly kiss. Silky lavender wildflowers watch with leafless skeleton trees as ghosts of drifting clouds are crossing the countryside tonight.
Hot alien desires. Sirens singing for love. Appocolypse is coming to dinner. Chaos rules tonight.
Lightning roars, thunder rolls. Skies open, hot salt-tears fall. I am surrounded by the shipwreck of my life.
I was told that Jesus help me write that poem and it was about my feelings about myself when a girl at school told me she saw someone so ugly it made me look attractive
How would anyone trust any such claim, now, in the ChatGPT era? You'll never be able to trust the provenance of creative writing by relative unknown random people on social media ever again.
