Writing · Spoken word

Soil That Burns

On identity, faith, and self-worth — growth out of hard ground, held in the questions rather than resolved.

The seed doesn't choose the ground it's planted in, But I chose every sin, every shortcut, every way I let myself in, I know there's something bigger that these roots were meant to find, But I built a church inside myself and worshipped what was mine,

What if I'm scared as I touch one-seven, Like I don't appear in the idea of heaven Not banned, not judged, just absent from the picture, Like the frame was built for someone with a different mixture,

A stranger looked at me and asked if I had been burned as a child, I stood there, something cracked, something that was once mild, Went quiet in me, not anger, something colder, The mirror always lied, strangers carry boulders,

Every morning, skin that tells a story I didn't write, Every night, wondering if God can love what can't get right, Not the acne, deeper than that, the feeling underneath the face, That I take up too much of myself and not enough space,

I've been selfish with my hours, selfish with my care, Gave myself the best of me and left the rest bare, Called it preservation, called it knowing what I need, But preservation without purpose is just a different type of greed,

I've read about the covenant, The David who was chosen, But David sinned too, and still wasn't broken, I hold that like a question, not comfort, not an answer, Like a man who knows the music but still can't find the dancer,

I don't know if heaven has a place reserved for people like me, Who loved themselves too loud and loved their purpose quietly, Who prayed but mostly bargained, who believed but mostly doubted, Who burned from the inside and left the outside clouted,

The seed becomes the tree or it becomes the rot, I'm somewhere in the middle, which is maybe all I've got, No resolution, no arrival, no clean place to land, Just soil that burns, and roots, and a reaching hand,

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