Lay author Jonathan Fleming shares his innermost thoughts through the gift of poetry
I’ve kicked up a storm in me;
I’ve sent up plumes of toxic fumes that have poisoned my atmosphere;
Incalculable miniscual particles produced through millions of myopic moments are now metastasizing in my blood stream;
It’s a callous cancer that’s eating away at my dreams.
Facilitated failures are fueling future failures that reduce my frame
Down to the emaciated remains
That are haunted by the hollowed out eyes;
Eyes that hide the shadow of the man I once was behind the cruel cataracts constructed of consecutive layers of consistent, persistent selfishness.
And I want to be better than this,
But this diagnosis of my design works hard to convince me that any conscious attempt to resist this self-mutilating sickness is a worthless expense of the little strength I have left.
I caused this, and its healing is outside of my grasp;
But not Yours.
I know You are affectionate,
And with passion You welcomed self-sacrifice to overcome my every affliction.
I know of how ridiculously You let Your blood run free so I might be saved from the offspring of my sin,
But the act of letting You in has attained a level of difficulty beyond my imaginings,
Back when our fledgling romance was in its infancy.
Back when I promised You could have all of me.
I still haven’t convinced myself that You accept my failures as readily as You accept my victories;
As readily as You accept me.
Please show me;
Let me finally believe that You are better to me than what I believe I deserve.