Tired of drowning in things to be done,
Tired of fighting the battles I’ve [not] won.
While victory lies on the table of contemplation,
And my flaws grow in the soil of frustration,
Am I overcommitted, under acquitted?
Still wrestling pain that I’ve [not] admitted?
Am I working too much, trying to touch,
The glory, the talent of such and such?
Do I need a new fire, a spiritual zeal,
Something to coax my numb senses to feel? 10
Something to bring me down from a tree,
Like the kitten crying, just to be free.
Where are the hands of my Rescuer?
The holes in the hands of my Discover.
I am small enough to fit in His hands,
Large enough to walk with Him on the sands.
Where is He now but a moment away?
A voice away with the sound of “hey”
The voice which knows the length of my day,
Who touches my shoulders and breathes it away. 20
Filling my senses: I’m no longer dead.
When His faithful hand is beneath my head.
Together we recount the ups and downs,
Of a full day, with sights, memories, sounds.
With tears over the unkindness faced,
When I couldn’t cry, but my heart still paced.
Now ocean pieces sting like glass my face,
But cannot stay, for He will yet erase,
And heal their present dwelling place,
Renewing beauty and giving grace. 30
I have a wall of love to run into,
Whenever I have none to hang on to.
For now I will stay in this tree,
With the One who will rescue me.
I am not ready to face them all,
I don’t want to see their faces at all.
They ask for answers, I have none,
They try to make me have some fun,
But forget that I’m not one of them,
That I will never, never be one of them. 40
On a separate note, I was given a gift today,
It was when I heard someone say,
I was not a problem to be fixed,
A wasteland of emotions mixed.
But that life as I knew it was normal,
Problems, pressures, pains were normal.
It was the voice of an angel informal,
A voice pragmatic, sensible, moral.
Which has made me [cry] behind her back,
For the sense and sensibility [I lack.] 50
The encouragement to move on when,
You’ve messed up in front of all of them.
These are the tear which I keep [hidden],
Behind the glass of perfection |forbidden|,
I hear a siren, the glass will -crack-.
But again my Saviour wins it back.
I might be cute, fuzzy, and purring daily,
But I’m wet, shivering, shaking faintly.
Until I’m enclosed within His grasp
Like magic safe within the clasp. 60
Where I release the sounds exiled,
To be within my poetry [silenced.]
Betrayed, portrayed, arrayed,
The words condense on those hands scathed,
The sunlight peeks in through the holes
Of pain, of price for healing souls,
Sometimes I think I’m one of many,
Other times His love says I’m the only,
But I have been healed, am being healed,
And He is my cure thus far concealed. 70