Who am I?

Staring at an unpainted wall

Wondering what the colour should be

I sit and I wait

I wait for inspiration

I wait for transformation

For certainly if I stare long enough

If I give it enough thought I’d finally be able to figure out what the colour of my bedroom should be

But at last I see words not colours as I sit and I stare

I see the words literally form and drop off the wall and onto the page of my open book

With little to no help from me the words are formed

Because who am I to claim to be a writer?

When the words come from the strangest of places

Who am I to take on the title of poet?

For if I doubt myself enough then maybe I can convince myself out of what God has called me to do

After all there are so many others who stand and project

Who profess with such flare of poise the name of Jesus Christ

With bars that speak to hearts and break chains

Chains not of the physical but spiritual that shackle even me

So I hide my pen

I buy book after book hoping for some inspiration

Hoping that maybe if I had fresh sheets they would be easily filled

Yet I can’t find my pen

I’d rather share things of old that admit I’m wrong

Than admit there is a real fear that has risen up on the inside of me

For who am I to even think I can take on the title of poet?


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