God you search my heart and know my every deeds, yet I still feel the need for humans to understand me.  I wish sincerity could be physically seen and felt in these words, instead of just inferred.  I wish my feelings could be tangible so people could touch the teeth of my cannibal emotions instead of only listening to palatable words describing something beyond palpable.

I feel like a convict imprisoned by God’s will and conscripted to a script of duties with no profit.  Lord, I thought your burden was light?  So, why is your yoke like burning buildings crushing me from the weight of my fiery sin?   The world sings of your presence being more intoxicating than bourbon, and as bestowing a person with purpose.  So, you would think I would work tirelessly for something as promising as your peace, yet I frequently treat it as though I could take it or leave it.

I can’t continue to pardon my paradoxical life with poetic jargon. I say I think church community is key, but don’t get involved outside Sunday mornings because I’m too busy trying to fight porn from pouring into my poor soul.  I try to vindicate my privilege with petty philanthropy, only to have vindictive reality reel me back in to see all the real inequity.  I see households held together by broken hands,  houses with holes that can’t hold back the environment, and those who can’t even hold a house.

My house could hold a few of those souls who have no home and I could bring healing to those hands trying to hold the family together.  Yet I do nothing.  No, worse than that. I write this with tears that tear up my conscience, but the consequence is the same result, with me being cognizant of my competence to make a real difference, yet choosing to stay profitless because I think one day in the future, not now, but in the future, I’ll actually start being a servant.  I act as though being a cryptic critic with critical lyrics gives my character blemishes a better image.

But I can’t keep overlooking my flaws just because I can make them into a message.  The mediocrity of my morality magnifies my mortality.  I am but a man consumed by contradiction and constantly aware on my conscious comradery with hypocrisy.  How I would be ceaselessly despondent by the frailty of my will if I didn’t know that it was your will that you save me.  That you’ve made it impossible to reach your standards without you.  I lavish in how you’ve established yourself as the only fount that will quench my thirst.  For now I can banish my dependence from anything that’s not the one who’s everlastingly dependent.