Weary words...

I am weary. I am weary of being weary. I am weary of the blood. I am weary of the rain. I am weary of when the rain falls it harkens to my blood- the blood in me that’s made of the water that someone cried centuries ago for the same men. The same powers. / The same people being recycled. Old. Boring. Dead ideas being born in new bodies that only value what they can take. I am weary. I am weary…I am weary of crying myself to sleep because I don’t know what I can do to help. I am tired of being poor. Poor in resources. Poor in reach. Poor in volume and small in scope. I am weary of those loud and wealthy WASTING their reach. Their scope. Their voice. I love being a woman and yet I feel this body carries a tiredness that is older than the water I am crying. I am running out of words. I am running out of air. I think the only thing that makes sense anymore is that I know I am not the only one wearing the weary road as we dream into the future. Being hopeful- it feels like- is a revolution- and I am weary of having to defend my hope. Get full access to Sown. at seedlingspiritual.substack.com/subscribe