Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Full

Usually I ask you to fill me up,
to pour over me,
to satisfy my thirst
and
saturate my spirit,
to infiltrate and permeate my life,
to top off my cup
and run over.
But these days I'm already full.
Way too full.
Maxed out,
loaded,
gorged even,
topped off
with so much
of my own stuff that
-- even when I come to you --
there isn't room.
Help.
Drain me.
Empty me.
Break the dams.
Clear me out of myself.
Rend wide open a holy void
(and while you're working
on emptying me,
probably add
a good scolding
for how I keep
holding onto crap
that isn't you
and isn't really me either).
I sooo need you, but
there hasn't been room.
Clear out the fullness.
Make room
for you.

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