Living Martyr
I think I know,
that looking back, I will wished
I lived more.
I will wish I hadn’t sold
my soul away,
for praises and respect.
I will regret,
wasting these years.
Not by rotting my soul,
but by neglecting it,
in favor
of a future I don’t want,
and have never wanted.
To live in such a free nation,
touched and blessed by God,
I would feel trapped anywhere else,
including here.
I was made for the stars,
for the light, for the sun.
For the fields and trees and the blood,
for the pain and the regret and flesh,
the lamb, the slaughter, the cross.
To question my faith at every turn,
to burn my pearls over hungry flames.
I was never born to martyr,
I could never die for anything,
knowing I never once lived for anything
other than
.
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