Why
Why do I even try?
This cannot simply be,
I stare at a huge, hairy
C.
Am I really built for this?
Oh God, why?
Am I really built to
Write stories, papers
Poems, essays, like You
May want me to?
Is that even Your Plan for me?
If it 'tis, why do I now
Question and doubt my
Abilities, or if
I'm at all worthy
Of the honorable title,
"Author,"
"Writer,"
"Novelist,"
Or
"Christian."
Am I truly worthy
Of any of these wond'rful things?
Then, what it is that I lack?
Is it that I am too o'erwhelm'd,
Even for my own good,
That I fail to write
As often as I should?
Or is it that I rarely have
The time
For my Bible to crack?
My friends all seem closer to You,
'Tis true,
But they are better writers than I--
Was I then not meant to be?
Please, dear Lord,
Show me.