I can hardly manage when I see us suffer. In our suffering, I can hardly manage to breathe. Recognizing growth in strength and wisdom, I accept my trials. But baby, I continue to see you troubled too and that hurts my soul.
I know you can't see it when my chest smolders in anxiety. Love and pain become a volatile mixture in my bloodstream churned upside down in the confides of this empty stomach. I gag from entangled airways.
I say open your eyes to find my face blue but all you see is brown skin. So no, thereís no compassion. I'm just a black man actiní; caught in the same mission. Love listen, my every desire is to see my son's footprints take shape in his infant world; be there to carry baby when times weigh too much until he weighs too much and role model how to walk on strong legs - all in the Name. I grimace as I glance at my son as young as he lives looking up for questions to receive answers, requests to be granted.
Who knows a man's pain? Who sees his tears to be better; a better husband, father, and all-around individual? Who knows his prayers to leave positive residual effects on his legacy; measuring up to excellence by placing a line between the past and present tense with a paradigm of failure and success attempts? Not a soul, but that's okay. Keep striving, the Lord sees. Amen.
PLEASE ENCOURAGE AUTHOR,
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