Nothing says what I want to say.
No matter what I try to write about,
It all comes out as useless junk,
I get so frustrated I want to shout.
Lord, its more than writers block,
More like time has warped my day.
The “to-do-list” is crossed off done.
People told who had a need to know,
Still nothing eases the shock inside,
When words were said before I said “No!”
“Here’s a diagnosis, pushed aside,”
I cling to the Father, Holy Spirit and Son.
It’s with me when in the morning I wake,
And follows me all through the day,
At evening and night when it’s there too,
In every action, all I do and say,
Throughout each chore I stumble through,
If I admitted less I would be a fake.
I’m dying and I’m only fifty-one,
Just finding my way in a creative world,
Poetry, novels, paintings and how-to-draw,
Things I tried to wholly trust You with, Lord,
How can death now be my call?
I feel cheated of the life we ‘ve built here too.
You’re God and You can understand my mood,
You’ve allowed that of which I don’t understand,
I cling to the compass pointing me to faith,
I cling to our Father’s masterful hand,
To cling to less I’d have lived for waste,
So to Christ and faith I hold even in solitude.
This is real, this is where I’m at.
I can’t pretend it’s all okay, it’s not,
But with Your help Lord, I’ll be alright,
Though I may not wake at morning’s shout,
I can close my eyes turn to the light,
When You have called me to where You’re at.