https://awriterssoulblog.wordpress.com/
Why sing praises,
When I can never think of any,
Nothing good at least,
Am I supposed to come clean?
Scrub myself, to the bone, to remove your trace on me,
Express myself in ways that make me raw and like you.
Because I can’t find any trace of you,
And for that I’m glad,
I can never sing your praises,
Because I never found anything worth my voice,
Worth my words, worth the feelings you find in other dedications,
Saturated in sweetness and sour,
It never painted a pretty picture of us,
Perhaps it never could, we just weren’t meant to have hymns and sonnets,
Building like a sinking stone,
Resentment never looked good on anyone
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