27 March 2014
Threedom’s Mission
You’ve all seen what American culture teaches,
how it preaches,
sex, sex, and more sex.
If you’re having great sex, than you’re living the dream!
Or so it would seem
from what American media deems
as life.
Well guess what,
I have sex every day,
sometimes multiple times a day,
you’d think I got it made!
But I didn’t choose
this life.
I’d rather be somebody’s wife
in a house with two kids and a dog,
Maybe a cat.
Ya’ know, I’d even take a turtle
because that was what I thought I wanted,
to purchase the American dream,
and hold on to my receipt with an iron fist
complete with a white picket fence.
To see that dream come true
was to receive assurance of a comfortable life
safely tucked away behind that white picket fence.
But now, I don’t care if I’m living in tents,
I just WANT OUT!
I’m tired of people talking about
sex slavery
without wavering
in their complacency and apathetic attitudes.
And what about those so-called Christians?
Aren’t they supposed to be protecting God’s people?
Yet I see them sit underneath their steeple,
in well-dressed clothes with finely tuned guitars
praising their Jesus who calls them to… what?
To occasionally send a couple bucks towards a cause
only after they have financial security?
To wait to act until they have complete spiritual maturity?
Hello world, what about my purity?!!
Remember when I said I didn’t choose this life?
Have ya’ll seen Taken?
‘Cause that is what I was:
Taken, Stolen,
Ripped out of my mother’s arms
as though a heart being ripped from its home,
to beat in a place it was never meant to be.
and feed the lies that were meant to die.
And now my heart beats inside an object.
Because That. Is. What. I. Am.
A thing, simply some thing, to be enjoyed for personal
pleasure.
Ya’ know, Every day I fulfill someone else’s desires
as though all my dreams have expired
and are no longer worth pursuing.
Won’t anyone choose me?
Give me a chance to be free?
Yet all I can see
of my future are shackles
as if I’m tied to boulders
an enormous weight on my shoulders.
Even when there’s no one above me,
I can’t seem to lift myself off this mattress
and wherever you look on an atlas
help isn’t coming
from anywhere.
I think I remember a Psalm
from my Sunday school days with mom,
back when my life was calm:
“I lift my eyes to the hills,
from where will my help come?
My help comes from the Lord,
maker of heaven and earth.”
Well I’ve never heard of hills behind bars,
but through my window I see the stars.
If you, Oh God, created all that,
why am I walked all over like a mat?
Where are you God?
I’m simply looked at as a lesser human being,
and knowing I’m created in your image isn’t so freeing
when a good day is the day I’m not looked at,
but simply overlooked.
Do you, God of the universe,
see this broken vessel?
Every night with you I wrestle
angry but mostly afraid,
wondering when and if this
will ever end.
Wondering if I will ever get to live.
Wondering if I will ever get to know what Life even is.
If I do it better come soon
because I am slowly slipping away
as bits of my soul stray
and depart with every man that leaves,
my heart left torn and empty.
Soon all will be gone,
and only a shell will remain.
a shell, a body and soul, broken.
Alone.
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