The Potter

Lord, shape me

Upon Your wheel;

Move me, change me,

Take me higher up.

I will lose my self-will.

I will send my pride away.

I will meekly accept Your will.

I will choose to be humble.

I trust You to create in me

The beauty that I long for.

I trust You to skillfully craft

A vessel of honor

Fit for Your use.

The Stoic One

I take it in the gut, every time

When I'm the recipient, the acceptor,

The bearer of another's burden.

It's then I falter, stretching for a handhold,

Leaning, tilting, trying not to fall, knowing,

She can't hold me up.

And so I take it, take the dagger to the stomach

With not a whimper (because I can't afford a whimper),

I keep talking through my teeth until I find space

To limp away and lick my wounds.

It's difficult, although I'm trying not to whine;

(See, it's not my place to whine;

I'm the stoic one).

When I'm wounded this way, I need a soft place to fall, but

I'm the only me that I know.

Nothing

For 40 minutes I tried to write... and for 40 minutes I got nothing useful. It happens sometimes. I imagine even Shakespeare had days like this.