Needing to write.

 I have this need to write. The problem is, I don't know about what. I was born for words and meaning. Truth and feeling. A lasting impression, a promised attraction. This is where the rubber's on the road. All the gravel leading home. I'm tired and burned. Scorched by the torch I was supposed to carry. Fueled by the wrong things. Confused and weary. What happened to my silhouette on the prairie. That movie-scene perfection of walking through wheat fields, doesn't justify reality. I've tried it and stumbled, scratched, and disgruntled. How was I supposed to know you'd reach quarter life and be trying to explain the one thing you really grasp only for them to react like it's some mystery I possess. I refuse to believe it's only for me. I get giftings and beholdings, but I feel like this should be the wrapping. Are people so lost inside their box? Am I too far from reach that it's weird to teach? Lord teach me compassion. Instead of this vexation. I know they need more, help me pray for that, Lord. This is where it's at. I'll commune and not compromise. I guess it's that quote: how will they know, unless they are shown.