A Samson Brother's Poem

Yesterday, last week, a year ago this morning
I was sitting, still thinkin about where I'm going 
I'm tired, worn down and out but when did that happen? 

It's hard to point, grab or hold, behold the past that flashes fast out of my sight right when I fight for clarity this part of me was never free yet how do I see what wasn't me? 

The mad dash, sudden crash and hopeful snatch of something finally real inside my hopeful cry full of the gift of desperation. Take a step, no thats the wrong one, back to square one, forgotten floor God's in it with me and just for a second, I see something. 

My wornout life, half my strife has hurt my wife and though its trite my flight was striking hard at hearts like firey darts of doubt pain shame and blame it scarred my name and mades me want to fake my fame so I could be the same as people who did not seem to not be seen like I was or to be unseen like I was by Mom or Dad, who both forgot me, teachers friends, I had nobody, noone there to talk about the darkness or deep desires of heart, sure there was God, but he was a way to please my Mom so she would feel like I was good not hurt, smart not falling short of expectations, yet I failed so much in her eyes it formed my eyes to see what she saw just a failed, broken, beaten boy who never was or will be enough to bouy above it all, but sink. 

Deep and down down drown in all the pain shame, let's do this again...

Patterns repeat and repeat and re preach all the lies to my heart that you can not get far and you just should give up, no point to go on, there is freedom from needs in oblivion. 

How do I flip the coin, reroll the dice, make the next move that will bring me new life? My deep suspicion is that this kind of mission is one that I cannot hope to do without Him. 

So what do I say I don't know how to speak it. Christianese isn't the dialect that feels good. So what other words can I use to describe someone who would could has changed me? Who I spat on and cursed at, drowned out and shut down, hated, ignored, I chose dirt over gold. 

It's especially hard when the steps are all ragged, I look back and can't see past the ravage. The dust is still settling, the print sets still tumbling to ditch after ditch after ditch after ditch. 

Yet above it all, in the dust, in the ditch, there is a still current, a gentle pull forward, a quiet, silent, knowing, a seekable presence. 

An answer.

A promise. 

Keep going.