So, let me get this straight.

Everyone else is permitted to traipse around dropping their opinions, no matter how dimwitted, and yet I'm the one walking on eggshells. Not to say that I am the source of all knowledge past , present, and future, but surely I am able to speak? Well, yes. Of course I am. But not without nosy, no-lifes who thrive on hunting those who they can pull down to their level with their entrapments of getting you to second-guess your own intelligence that they only wish they possessed, all the while reeling in their own maniacal sense of false security. Deep, deep down, they know. They know how weak-minded they are. They know how confused they have become over time, and they only nurture the wound with more poison. The poison of the tongue that flies quickly with no thought (or certainly not enough), wildly spreading words of witless naivety like wildfire. They can no longer stop themselves, and anyone who's brave enough to tackle that battle gets sent home with the guilt of possibly hurting another one's feelings. I call bullshit. If so many people have tried to force-feed you spoonfuls of the "think-before-you-speak" elixir, then don't you think you ought to take it? Yes, it's nasty. But are not the words that spill out of your mouth constantly? Or do you sugarcoat your own vomit?

In Jesus' Name. . .

"Let us be deceitful.
Let us be conniving.
Let us act as though nothing evil is taking place.
Let us smile in the faces of one another.
Let us lie heinously.
Let us be secretive and secluded.
Let us rob another of shelter.
Let us be justifiably greedy.
Let us giveth and taketh away with a false sense of authority.
Let us be cruel.
Let us be Hellish...

and please,
let us get away with it.

In Jesus' name,
Amen."

Such is the prayer of some who warm the frontmost pews.

Feelings of Inferiority

I am surrounded by greatness.

All the time, I am surrounded by greatness.

It is almost as if I skitter about on the grimy ground

beneath the feet of those who walk before me with their heads externally held high

trying to catch whatever little flakes of brilliance fall from their shedding exterior.

I crawl behind, scraping up what they need no longer and make it new,

make it my own.

I feel not much more than a recycler digging through bins

wondering how I allowed myself to get to this place.

I move as a ghost searching silently for characteristics I'd like to emulate--

or what's worse--finding characteristics that I once had

that are now either missing entirely

or trapped under the glacierous surface of what used to be my being.

I hate it.

Back to the beginning I must go.

On my Father's lap must I sit and beg,

"Remind me who I am again?

And please, turn me into something better than that."

Everyone wants to make a difference.

At least, they all say so. . .

It is time to turn "say" into "do."

It is time to turn wishes into actions.

It is time to turn inspiration into art.

I have come to a point at which I must be more comfortable with walking in circles to start

than I would be with standing still

watching the world pass me by

one day at a time

while being eroded by the sands of time.

The first step. . .

. . .has been taken.

Exhausted?

Depleted.

Drained.

Pulverized.

Ripped.

Torn.

Run over by a monster truck.

And then again.

Unstable.

Discouraged.

Beaten to a pulp.

Like a ghost

wandering the halls

looking aimlessly for what he left behind

if anything...

Weary.

so

very

weary.

inspiration

-someone telling you that you're going to go places

-reading and identifying with the writings of another

-finding solace in shared feelings

-realizing progress after a prolonged period of being almost entirely oblivious to it

-intently observing minute details in other people

-being reminded of the fact that even the most revered people are still human, and therefore, their brilliance is also attainable by you (with hard work)

-encouragement that strikes a chord deep within from the least likely of people

-a simple gesture of affection

-a full moon glowing beneath a screen of hazy clouds, like the soul of the sky

Self-Mutilation

Empty box.

Blinking cursor.

Racing thoughts.

"Ooh, that could be good..."

Twenty words tapped out.

Stop... Think...

"Nahh, too _____."

Press and hold "delete."

*sigh*

Repeat.

This is what happens every single time I come here. I still care too much. I still hide within the walls of self-consciousness and timidity. I still find it petrifying to release my thoughts. Never eloquent enough. Never impressive enough. Never mature enough. Never written well enough. Never acceptable.

I get inspired by the words of others, almost to the point of action, and then I am utterly crushed by intimidation.

It hurts. It hurts to try and fail, or to feel inferior even when you know that anything that is done well by another has in some way been developed, nurtured and improved, whether by intention or subconscious habit. That knowledge has rarely been enough for me. Something is keeping me from believing it and I have yet to discover what it is exactly, but I must find it. I've grown tired of being crippled by my own irrational trepidation. I need to be freed. I need to be careless to a certain degree.

Let water flow from the deepening cracks in this prematurely aged stone.

Allow me to introduce myself.

I'm just another somebody.

Just another college student who lurks around in the dark on the weekends

in their Hollister hoodie and pajama pants

with a neon green headband securing their messy bun

while they swim through endless pages of paper

until "distraction" arrives in the form of Hulu.com...

Just another musician who never wants to work on their scales

even while knowing full well how bloody essential they are to progress of any kind...

I'm just another friend.

Just another daughter,

just another sister.

Just another child of God.

Just another troubled soul.

Just another girl who has been paralyzed with fear

by the worthless opinions of those who think they matter,

seldom taking into consideration the opinion of He who has made her.

One who has been told to sit on her hands.

One who has been told to keep her tongue bitten.

One who now refuses to be a robot,

and will no longer succumb to the suffocation of silence.

I am not embarking on this path to be a rebel,

nor to show that I've found my cojones.

I am not metaphorically getting sleeves of tattoos and piercing things that shouldn't be pierced.

I am trying to take steps toward growth.

I'm learning when to speak and when to be silent,

and when I chose to speak, I'm learning how to do so in an appropriate manner.

I'm allowing my Father to mold, break, bend, crack, poke, prod, squish and stretch me.

I want change.

Well, I need change.

So here I am.

This is me.

I am not here to please you.

I am not here so that your thumb can have something to pin down.

I am not here to be an article in your prayer-meeting-version of US Weekly.

I am not here to make sure that you go through life unoffended.

However, I am also not here to intentionally offend you,

nor to instigate petty arguments about minuscule behavioral preferences.

I'm not here to spew puffed-up, intelligent-sounding nothings

that will have me classified as being too big for my skinny jeans.

I'm simply trying to stand firm in every sense that I'm currently capable of wrapping my head around.

If you'd like to watch, you're welcome to.

If you want to discuss things in a civil and mature manner, you are more than welcome to.

If you love to take what you see and "run and tell that,"

then just know that while I can do nothing about it,

your Respect-O-Meter points will drop significantly.

Pray for me.

Keep me accountable as a sister in Christ.

I need those things.

What I do not need are people who are just looking to "get up in my grill."

If that is your mission, then by all means,

do find it in your will to skedaddle.

I eat spies for breakfast. With ketchup. They're crispy.

Welcome to all who have come to see this spectacle walk the proverbial tightrope of life.

Peace, love, and carrot cake.