needed to write

Quiet the soul's speech, let the salve do it's work
Heard a little too much torment as the minutes lurk,
By, Why?
What's the deal that my hand's been dealt slick,
Good seems to evade me, like the whole games a trick,
And I'm sick,
Tired of never seeing change,
Angry that the pain is always mine to claim.

So much is wrong, and it's all we ever see,
Problems have such high visibility,
Good is supposed to be, and so we regard it lightly,
But we need to give thanks for what, by His grace has remained holy,

Prophetic, always finding problems,
Purify the Body and get rid of the nonsense.
Pouring out the coals, but instead of silver I'm only making more hotheads,
Speaking truth to others' hearts but only finding rock beds.