Just about eight or nine

It's like being eight again.
Waiting on these side-lines;
bright lights reflecting on my pale skin.
Feeling like I'll throw up maybe.
If He calls me in the game.
Just to hear Him call my name,
I'll run out anyway.
I run so funny, I'm clumsy and uneven.
I'm not as fast as everyone else,
and in the past I haven't proved the best.
The pinch effect doesn't work, I'm still here.
I stare up into the air, praying that God will
help me to do better this time.
Then the whistle blows, and the game begins;
and I'm distracted by the bright lights
young mothers smoking while they hold their children.
The different colors of people, the moths in the air;
till the game's reached my face,
and it's that same feeling.
What will I do?
When it's my turn to live, what will I do?
This is my time. What have I done? What will I do?

think... think

Self worth, and yet it feels a whole lot less than what I had imagined
thinking somthing in this sea could reach the upper chambers to my cabin,
breached walls, dark halls, cold floors, wet hearth;
this prison I'd built so stealthily has reached an apex in its birth.
Thought be their words I could build up my own strenth,
looking forward eagerly to reaffirming lengths;
but when I'm here, and they're there, and nothing but silence in between,
makes all this emptiness my kingdom - I'm no longer captive, I'm queen.
Really, I feel a need to be better than before.
Felt the weight of emptiness once,
don't want to feel it anymore.
Hands raw from the chaffing of the winds in my palms.
All my exertions have left me gasping, not calm.
All the while preaching: "Peace! Peace!" when there is none.
All the while hoping no-one else can see how easily I am undone.
Because I'm superman, we hold our masks up high.
Taught myself how to crawl on my hands, but on my knees I've never learned to fly.
They say there will be a better day when we won't wish to look.
When I won't compare me to you, where we won't have a 'checkbook'
it all sounds great to me, I'd gradually subscribe;
until I learn that somthing within me has to die.
The mentality that I hold and nourish close to my heart,
that makes me feel insecure and feeble but that I wouldn't dream of letting depart.
Because without it I see that nothing I do matters.
That I can't prove to God my worth, I can't climb spiritual 'social' ladders.
So what is love? What do you offer that will replace this thing in me?
How will formulaic religion begin to apply to cold-hard, reality?
But what is love? Please tell me what is love?
Did Jesus really love the prostitute? Did he eat with the sinners?
Would He eat with me if I asked him? Would He have patience with beginners?
If what I've sought is not real, and as the time ebbs like the sand;
will Jesus fill these holes in me? Will He take my hand?

All around me...

It's strange to think this day has been since before there was time;
that I was right where I was always going to be, no matter how many times I want to ask "why?".
You don't offer any answers, as to why things had to be this way,
I'm supposed to follow Your voice, even on days like today.
To be honest I didn't feel like waking up this morning,
I didn't want to pray.
It's become too routine, too secure, I doubted I could go on this way.
So it takes somthing like now, to make me see the truth;
that YOU, Oh God, are not here to make me comfortable and steady in this life, but take me into the next with You.
And if I have to cry, to learn to die; face embarassment and grief.
It's all enough to trust that Your the One who holds me past my own unbelief.
There were angels in that pavement, dancing and singing a song...
I didn't want to see it, because it meant I'd join along.
Singing about God's goodness despite where I am.
Being joyful in their harsh words, smiling at their "damns"
Singing about YOUR goodnes, all around me...