God,
Why am I here, what's meant for me?
That question whispers, constantly.
Is it to ease another's pain,
Or plant a seed that blooms again?
To lend a hand, a listening ear,
And wipe someone's silent tears?
To paint a memorable picture,
sing a melancholic song,
And show the world where I belong?
Perhaps it's found in simple things,
The joy a little kindness brings.
A gentle word, a helping deed,
A planted hope, a growing seed.
Maybe purpose isn't grand,
But it comes in little pieces,
To become a part of God’s plan.
To love and learn and simply be,
But what bloom does God want from me?