I get tired of my writing quite a lot.

I feel like it's just a bunch of repeated words. None are my own and they are just taken, taken, and taken.

Millions of books written and I just slice the words and sentences I like. I put them together, pretending as if it is my own.

And I feel like I'm fooling the world

and sometimes even myself.

My words are chopped and unedited. I post things when I trick myself into thinking it'll be okay.

Some people say my writing is beautiful. It's beautiful, lovely, and perfect.

What if I told you I thought it was awful?

I'm a piece of glass with your words written over. I'm just a copy. And then the glass gets thrown to the floor and shattered into a billion pieces.

I'm just a million pieces of a million stories.

A cheap copy.

I love to read. I love to get all I can get. More, more, more, I scream. And then I get too much and it is -- somehow -- too amazing and my eyes fall from God, to others, and then to myself.

The same dumb problem every stinking time. My eyes fall from God to myself.

Me, me, me.

I don't see greatness and I don't think I'm oh-so-wonderful. The opposite is what I see.

A cheap copy.

Words just rearranged and chopped in half. A broken little girl who can't even lift up her arms to ask for help.

I'm afraid of being alone in the dark; I'm afraid of being forgotten (but I don't seem to mind when I am); I'm afraid I can't be fixed; I'm afraid people just pretend to like me; I'm afraid every word someone speaks is just to make me shut up; I'm afraid that my friends don't like to talk to me and just do because I talk to them; I'm afraid that no one really cares.

This whole post has been about me.

And for some reason, I'm not okay with that.

Because who I am is not who I want to be. Because the focus is on me. Because it's not anything inspiring. Because it's stupid and raw and everything I don't want to let the world see.

Because it's admitting I'm wrong and lost and dumb

and that I forgot to look up to Him.

That I have to keep relearning this lesson.

And every time I relearn it, it hits harder than the time before. But His grace is even more gentle.

Like autumn leaves being kindly picked up by the wind. 

And a broken, off-tune song finds its way out of my swollen lips and into His ears.