God, I’m tired. Not the kind a night of sleep can fix. I’m soul tired. Bone-deep. The kind that settles behind the ribs and refuses to move. I don’t have big words tonight. No polished prayers. No Sunday voice. Just this. I tried being strong today. Tried smiling like the cracks weren’t spreading. Tried walking straight while everything inside me leaned sideways. People think faith looks like certainty. But tonight mine looks like sitting on the edge of the bed with my hands hanging loose and nothing left to hold up. God, I’m tired of carrying versions of myself I don’t recognize anymore.Tired of memories that don’t knock before coming in. Tired of pretending that healing doesn’t take more out of me than breaking ever did. And I know I’m supposed to say thank you. Supposed to say I trust you. But tonight all I’ve got is honesty. So here it is unfiltered, unfinished, barely standing: If you’re still here, sit with me. I don’t need answers. Don’t need lightning. Don’t need a miracle speech. Just stay. Because sometimes faith isn’t a fire. Sometimes it’s a flicker that refuses to go out. And if that’s all I can offer tonight God, I hope it’s enough. by Jason Strickland

Were you in the skillful hands of the potter being shaped and gently molded as the wheel of life turned slowly a tragedy unfolded the image the potter created took on a different shape robbed of its first intention the vessel begin to break it cracked under false pretense hurts, wounds and scars left with no defense left with no holds barred tossed within a discarded a pile helpless, abandoned a wounded child but the potter stumbled upon its remains then put the vessel on its wheel again gently, carefully melting it down The potter spoke these words out loud who broke you cracked you, messed you up? left you ruined amongst this stuff I broke you first but the plan was divine they broke you again but the plan is still mine I still have the blueprint you're still in my hand and though you have been broken I'll make you over again

I needed to walk away from the love of liquor My mind knew that but my heart wanted to bicker I went staggering to the mirror this morn One black eye and a busted lip now worn What in the world has happened, who have I become? How could I allow myself to get in this position to be so numb? My face a mess my jaw is swollen and broken I really want a cigarette, got it lit, now it’s smoking Abuse is real. Numbing was my only way of escape Hide behind closed doors and fully drawn drapes, Let no one see just how bad it had got This was my battle alone now to be fought My wounds will heal, my desires would change No more beating nor alcohol won’t this be strange? A life of peace of knowing I am in a safe place Only thing left behind are scars upon my face CDK 2-15-26

Half a Prayer It wasn’t a full prayer. Didn’t have structure. Didn’t rise clean. It broke in the middle like a sentence that forgot where it was going. Half a prayer is what happens when belief is still breathing but barely. I didn’t kneel. Didn’t fold my hands. Didn’t close my eyes like the pictures say. I just whispered into the dark like it might answer back. Not even words, really. Fragments. A name. A sigh. A maybe. Half a prayer sounds like someone trying not to disappear while asking not to be saved too loudly. Because hope can feel dangerous when you’ve watched it break before. So I didn’t ask for everything. Didn’t dare reach that far. Just asked for enough. Enough strength to get through morning. Enough mercy to outlast the memory. Enough light to see one step ahead and not panic. And somewhere between the silence and the almost something shifted. Not thunder. Not angels. Not certainty. Just a small warmth in the hollow place where fear used to echo louder. Half a prayer won’t make headlines. But sometimes it’s the bravest thing a tired heart can give. And maybe God has always understood a truth we forget: You don’t need perfect faith to be heard. Sometimes half a prayer is still fully seen. By Jason Strickland

Why was I chosen to be love’s favorite drug and its strongest addiction? Misused and abused, I was left confused in solitude as the longest needle crippled my vein and guided me into submission The pain dealt pleasure that delivered me to delusion, deceiving me into believing that my contaminated bleeding was a natural affliction My real eye conflicted, unable to realize that what I received was driving me further into infliction and steering my brain further into the lane of the insane Cope had me holding on to hope that it wasn’t toxicity from my proximity filling my bloodstream with infections I was taught love meant to give and receive unconditionally, yet instead of reciprocity my efforts were consistently met with lessons Lesions forming around the many holes left from bullets, ecstasy layin’ next to me Knife ingrained so deeply that you couldn’t even begin to pull it, pain tolerance testin’ me Shit, I must be a masochist Cause the rush from being attached to this had me begging for half assed acceptance and weightless validation like lavish gifts And to add to this, it made me fall in love with Mary Jane who is the secretary In a permanent state of February, love bombing was all around so I figured I would never worry Until I was reminded by Aquarius waters that I was surrounded, silently drowning Finding myself losing faith that I will ever be found How did I even allow it to make me grovel on the ground? Doubt corrupted my intuition and fear interrupted my heart’s conviction, so even if they did listen my voice made no sound Hoarse from falling into patterns of victimhood from this system to which I was bound No choice but to disperse into pieces of hurt, nursing surgical wounds when anesthesia had me high out my mind Then the universe sent a different vision, arriving in divine timing with a sparkle in his eyes and a smile that shines I always fantasized about rehab, revitalized yet too damaged to see what was happening in front of me instead of behind Blinded and elusive to true love I deserved, I surrendered to confusion versus being lucid