Me

A creative mind, an over-thinker,
Always wondering what if,
Always asking how come,
Always needing the why,  

Makes for an introspective person,
Who would rather tell stories
To herself, and poems to the wind,
Than hold a lengthy conversation.

Her hand curls around her pen,
Words and hopes flowing out.
Dreams that will stay unspoken
Slide out in ink over her paper.

It’s here, on paper, that she has the
Control—her thoughts and actions run
The show. The characters in her mind have
No choice, but to do as she says.

This is a place where her mistakes
Never happened; she can fix anything,
And everything, she regrets. She doesn’t
Hesitate, or think, before she speaks.

Real life is hard for her, simply
Because it doesn’t work this way.
She doesn’t have control, she doesn’t
Know the whole, or even part of, the plot.

She can’t imagine Someone knowing,
The story better than she does.
It’s difficult to understand that His words,
And plot, are better than her own.

She still wonders what if, she still asks
How come, and she’ll always long for
the why. But she is learning to find comfort
From the heart of the One who made her.

So with tears in my eyes, I work each finger
Carefully taking each one and letting go,
Releasing my hold off of my pen,
And I give it all back to Him.