I tremble ere I speak,
yet I may neither draw closer,
nor leave; I speak of my grief
To my only Hope

You called me
from the womb, Your hand
defended and installed me
through the wasteland
You led me
You taught me to be wise
when the enemy bled me
Cutting deep lies-
But even Your servants agreed
on who I couldn’t be,
they deserved that decree:
The ability to guide what I believed
And there were texts behind them-
I only had desire;
The design of which stemmed
like some foreign fire
from my inner Jezebel-
Or so the story went
But to speak was to rebel
Proving my intent-
Damned to do or not to do,
So I curled up inside my soul.
I begged it be untrue,
But the years exacted toll
And I grew into myself,
Twisted against restraints
While none came, no heartfelt
Broke the cycle of the saints-
Perhaps this sounds accusatory,
But who am I to stand?
To litter Your story
With my own demands?
Who I am became assigned to me.
Those periods stretched so long…
I grew into who they said You wanted me to be-
But it always felt wrong.

Now they say it isn’t who I’m meant to be-
But isn’t it too late
To excavate
A brand new identity?

(Yet if there’s hope, or time,
to be whoever You want me to be
Ignore how I whine;
Begin the surgery.)

About viewingcamelot View all posts by viewingcamelot

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