*Hit play. Don’t believe me? Listen to Jordan, “You were right. Pushing play took it from impressive to powerful.” Jordan’s never wrong.*
My dearest angst, you’re an artist’s best frienemy
If you abandon me, I don’t know what will become of me
My darling muse, so dark, misunderstood and moody
What we labor and co-create, well no, not everyone will call it beauty
But hey, it’s out of my control, whether these words are beautiful
You think I’m writing them? That’s hysterical!
They’re writing me. It’s been that way all along
I just couldn’t see when I was cramming them into songs
But now they’ve broken free, they roam where they please
Seems they’ve arrived at the wall of your judgement and critique
Well, I’m so glad to see that you’ve got it all figured out
With your pleasantly-worded prayers and absence of doubt
But don’t you dare tell me, that what I see isn’t real
Don’t try to tell me what I’m allowed to feel
Nothing will stop me from marching on towards the light
I’m not a “Christian Poet”, I’m a hemorrhaging woman desperate for Christ
So I’ll dig in my heels and turn towards the wind
Wrestle with God Himself until he gives in
I’ll push and I’ll pull till I leave with a limp
Walk headlong into a hurricane just to get a glimpse of Him
And with a hitch in my hip I’ll reconcile with God and with man
Like Jacob at Jabbock I’ll stop running and stand
Cause I’ve been uniquely designed to say what I see
I’ve been uniquely assigned to set captives free
You find it inappropriate and odd how I verbalize my position
So while I wrestle with God, you weaponize religion
Cause you know I’ve always been eager to please
But now I’m just nauseatingly relieved
That my people pleasing hopes never found a host
Cause I’d be a shell and a husk of a human, a mere hovering ghost
And though I’m dressed in His armor, I’m not made of stone
I don’t want to push everyone away or walk this pilgrim’s path alone
So are these poems an expression of self or derivative of someone else?
All I know is that it’s write them or die, so when I’m overwhelmed
I put pen to paper to try to make it make sense
I’m compelled to create, I have no other defense
So I let it pour out, I let it run free, forfeit all my fragmented dreams
Then I repent of my pride and pray that His light somehow shines through all my chipped fragments and seams.
Is it a prayer or a poem? A blessing or a curse? A self-revelation or a sermon? Perhaps it's all of the above... or perhaps none of them. Whatever it is, I loved it.
Praying all our broken parts help heal others and lead them to belong ...
Belong to our Savior who bore our brokenness so we can live forever more!