Dive into your creative stream
My pen is my comfort. Behold, my poem. *Who will set me free? I have been deceived, I believed my own lies. I am rooted to the earth, and I bare no fruit, only that of death. There is conflict within myself which holds me fast. I am in bondage to my own sin, which is eternally battling within. What gives life eventually gives one death. A cry of despair leaves my lips. I am disease, and whoever touches me, receives death. I do not possess the power of a life pleasing to live, for my leaves wither dry. I leave myself open and vulnerable to sin. I am rooted to the earth and I bare no fruit, only that of death. I wait for the one to set me free, to whom I will surrender all.