Thank YOU, that I am not perfect!

I take off this heavy yoke,
This burden that cripples my spirit and robs my joy.
What is it like to live a different life?
To believe something different from what I've spoke. 

To try new things and become more of YOUR joy.
Thank YOU that I'm not perfect!

Thank YOU that I can make mistakes,
And can try again.
There are many possibilities ahead!
I can zoom ahead and I can apply the breaks,
I can stumble and re-wire my brain.

Thank YOU that I'm not perfect! 
So here's to another attempt,
So here's to continuing on the journey...
No matter what…willingly and NOT circumspect!

I love Sunday for its quietness,
I love Sundays, for there is no rush.
I love Sundays for writing poetry.
I love Sundays for the hush.
I love Sundays for the calm before the storm.
I love Sundays because my mind reboots to the norm.
I love Sundays because I can take my soul for a walk,
And let it roam across heavenly realms.
I love Sundays to be without an agenda that I have to chalk.
I love Sundays, to remember.
I love Sundays, and that's where I will be,
Loving You more without animosity.

No more doubt.
No more unhealthy fear.
Shrink back shadows,
You are not welcome in my life.

No more shame.
No more people pleasing.
I shine a light on the truth,
That my future is bright.

No more playing small.
No more self-sabotage.
I stand again,
I will enlarge.

I will seek you for truth.
I will quieten the taunts.
I will stop the tremmers,
And breathe again.

I will receive my fortunes.
I will rejoice in my success.
I will reclaim lost ground,
I will rest.

We become blind when we cease
To see, the extraordinary within you and me.

We blame and name and attempt to tame
Others to be the same, for peace?

Open your eyes anew, please!
And open your hands trustingly.

How quickly we’ve been brought down,
On bended knees, crying please,
Stop the disease, we’ll take off the crown,
To our lives; listening to lies, mantras of self-help tease,
Hope beyond now. Clear the mental fog and refocus.

It was pitch black
as I walked this morning.
The earth is turning.
All anxieties that flee
In the light,
That couldn't be cracked
In the black loom large.
Until almost home.

Daily, I work so hard
To be straight,
Perfect.
To need not.
But daily, I am reminded
Of how crooked I am;
Abundantly needy.

I laugh at myself,
Do you?

I will sometimes spontaneously, spill out with song,
The tunes may not make sense, but does that make them wrong?

I will sometimes water the garden in my underwear,
And yes, dance around free, with no care.

These moments are sparse and are to be treasured.
They are the glimmers of life when feeling haggard and weathered.

I have come to the place where I laugh at myself,
Can you?

I am embracing my imperfect body, crazy curls and awkward twirls of a nobody, a somebody…

Everybody….

Now, that's something true.

La La La la.

In this world we will have troubles:
Daily struggles, some self-inflicted, some externalised.
I can now see my greatest sin has been: refusing to accept God’s grace.
Lavishly bestowed: freely given: no strings attached, no punishment afflicted.
I repent of being internally conflicted; rning my eyes to His face,
He holds me, loves me, molds me,
As hard as this journey of life has been,
I see beauty is springing forth from within me from thee.
As deeper understanding is gained,
I can release the heavy burdens and unnecessary chains.
Grace: freely given, I now receive,
Grace: everlasting gift truly unmatched and unrestrained.

Never did I want to be a boxer,
But I’ve spent quite a lot of time in the ring.
All I’ve wanted was to daydream,
To play, write and sing.

But there’s always been a block:
Distraction,
A thief that’s knocked me down and robbed me true,
From harnessing my introspection.

Pushed up against the wall,
Beaten blue and black,
Suffering in this moment,
Focusing more on what I lack.

But I’m ready now,
To change: I MUST CHANGE,
Or I’ll lose much, much more,
Than I’ve already exchanged.

On my walls hang two pieces of art;
large canvases boldly splashed
with colour, stroke upon stroke formed vivid arcs.

I wish I had kept my father's paintbrushes,
they were tools of masterpieces.
From them, my strokes could have made faces flush
and inspired songs and poetry; love?

*
But, perhaps ‘twas a blessing to create with unique expression and freedom.

Where have you gone, words?
She vanished like vapour;
No longer lingers like a whisper from my perception, but she girds
Them. She used to pour out endlessly,
flowing like a babbling brook.
Now, dry, like the earth before conception. 
Parched, she sits desolately,
Crying out Spirit fill anew!

we are all missing pieces
of ourselves, cold,
and missing pieces
of the bigger story, untold.
how do we pay homage to these,
free them to unfold?
and welcome them,
bold.