Poetry

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I wasn't hungry,
Until I tasted words of hypocrisy,
And realized such bitterness,
Stimulated a growing desire for purification.

I wasn't sad,
Until I cried what remained self-pity,
Upon nearing the corner of insanity,
As I groped the barren ground in my infirmities.

I wasn't depressed,
Until truth convinced me through disappointment,
That I had become a fool,
Living the loathsome lie I despised most.

I wasn't alone,
Until I had eaten self-righteous advice,
Out of the gluttony of my own desperation,
And vomited the ill-repute of my own demands.

I wasn't empty,
Until desire turned to ashes,
Whereby nothing remained gratifying,
Except burning passion to understand discipline.

I wasn't born,
Until as I sacrifice I chose surrender,
When blindly I sought Your presence,
That drew so closely, I suffocated.

I wasn't alive,
Until I died in Your outstretched arms,
And through the strength of Who You are,
I received the breath of a new beginning.

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