We are Broken Pots.

We are so empowered yet so devoured.

We have all the rights that were faught for by the Martins.

Yet we use them to tear and devide.

Our rights have outweighed our neighbour's

Our rights stamp over our responsibilities.

In the stove of our dreams we mould ourselves.

Each into their own dream, a pot of clay shaped to take over the world.

We have sold our souls for the glories of this world.

We obsess about numbers, how many followers, how many likes.

Filter my flaws, I sell them perfection.

But depression is a flaw that lies within.

I am a pot of Clay with no Potter.

I am a God.

But I am broken. I need a creator.

A redeemer.

I need an image that is higher.

So on my knees,

I cry to the one who gave his life for broken Pots like I.

His name is Jesus, the Christ.

He is my Potter. He calls me the clay

I am a broken Pot in the hands of a Mighty God.

♥️
© NdiphaRod