This is Not a Poem

Lying here in this bed of my own design, clumsily crafted and molded with a rebellious mind, held together with loose tape and far-reaching thoughts of what could have been, I wonder if my time has passed. 

Have I wasted this gift God has given, life?  Surely He must be fed up with all that I haven't done.  Sick and tired of me fighting against even the thought of His purpose for my life.

Maybe deep inside I know God's plan for my life. Maybe what I perceive as God's plan is a presumptuous feeling of importance. Steadily reaching for the top when God may have called me to sweep the bottom. 

Yes, Jesus was the sacrifice and was slain so that I may have all of what I have done nothing to deserve. Ungrateful and undeserving as I am, I still want the biggest dream anyone could dream to come true for myself. My dream of happiness. 

Knowing my happiness could be in the sweeping or possibly in the acceptance of what God has for me to be...or of what God has for me to do.  Constantly chasing my own tail, have I thought myself into a circle, from which an escape would lead only to the same inevitable result?  Like the lines of a circle, the lines of a square eventually meet and keep going. 

It's so hard to be excited about breathing when the guilt from breath weighs so heavily on my chest. My cracked chest, barely strong enough to protect my heart, holds strong, fighting the fight (for me) that I have not the strength to face. 

This is not a poem. This is my life - the life clumsily crafted and molded with a rebellious mind. 

By Andrew J. Dorsey
March 25, 2015 - 1:08 a.m.

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