Created to create

My flesh wants to be known so badly.  My pride seeks attention, and my insecurities struggle to hide my flaws. I want people to know me, to love me, and to want to be around me. I want to perform, and I want people to watch. I want to write, and to be good at it. I want to create. I want to craft creations that make people feel. I want my creations to be special, and I want to be a favorite. I want to be unique. To be different. I want to speak, to be heard, and to be loved by all.

My flesh is incredibly prideful. So prideful, I’m embarrassed.

God has given me, like everyone else, talents. I know of some of my talents, but I often find myself using them for myself, rather than for the glory of God. I am selfish. I am human. I am a sinner. I want the glory. 

When I first started writing, I was afraid to share my work with anyone. Vulnerability is a fear of mine, and sharing my thoughts was one of the most vulnerable things I could do. Several years later, I have become more open with my writing. I share quite a lot of my work, and I easily accept criticism. I have came a long way, but I have even longer to go.

Success is everything. At least, that’s what the worlds telling me. When I write, I want the credit. I guess I have forgotten, everything I have created, has been inspired by a creation of some sort. Nothing I create is an original. It was all God inspired. Every piece.

My prayer is that I will stop being so prideful. That I will allow God to speak through me, and that I would rejoice when he does. I need to be using every opportunity to be a platform for Him. I write for Him. I speak for Him. I create for Him.

    “He must increase, but I must decrease.” John 3:30

I understand now

    I used to fall asleep to the sound of a keyboard.
Not the kind that plays music.
The kind that writes words.
    I used to climb trees with my brother.
We’d take off our shoes.
Sometimes a branch would break.
    I used to twirl my hair.
It was so blonde it was white.
My eyes were the color of the sky.
    I used to sit in my dads lap.
We would talk about my dreams.
He would try to make them happen.
    I used to ride my bike everywhere.
I sang the words that came to my mouth.
Sometimes I cried.
    I used to write C.S. Lewis fan fiction.
There were always talking animals.
And always great big castles.
I used to tell my friend, “Be brave.”
I used to tell my mom, “It will be okay.”
I used to hate taking naps.
What a waste of time!
I always hated going to bed while the sun was still awake.
I used t.

I used to be seven years old.
                       I am not anymore.
I still love to write.
And
Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I’ll fall asleep to the sound of the keyboard.
The kind that writes words.
I still love to explore.
Sometimes I ride my bike.
I still dream, I hope they come true.
But I understand now.
The world wants you to be
Something.
Someone.
But make sure you’re good at It.
Walk a certain way.
Talk a certain way.
     Dream a certain way.
All I know is,
I’ve cried too many tears
Because I’m forgetting who I was
Before The world told me who to be.

Spoken word poetry is music to my ears. I will often listen to a piece on repeat, in the background, while working. This spoken word piece by Jefferson Bethke, has been stuck in my head for a while now. Please listen to it! I hope it makes you feel something.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZHRpi4z7zk