penned up

feeling the words flow,
i go. to the pen to let it all out. but
the ink's run dry, and the tip's broken off. i scoff
at the deadness of self, at the quietness of my mind.
where's the screaming? i say.
bring it back.
bring back the crazy. bring back that look in my eyes
that cries to be free. to be me. i hate this gate that locks me
in, that i havent learned how to open. this body of mine
that pines away at the day when i can finally say that
this is all over; i cover my eyes and look away from the truth,
that this new thing i sing about, bring about with my terror
and error, is not my battle at all, but god's.

but i'd rather believe that i can be him.
that i can see him in me, instead of the other. that
my brother needs to be saved, but by me.
i see now how crazy that is. that god
is not a thing to be captured and kept, but a truth
to be wept over, cried for and died for. that
it's not me that's doing this at all, but him.
and on a whim i think that my blink clinks his coin in the slot,
that somehow my work can finish something he's started.

i need god to show me that i'm not doing it right.
and sometimes he does it by showing me
how naked i am without him.
pride goes before the fall... and this tall dream is not my own.
i release it into your hands, father. use me
or don't use me, according to your plans, not mine.