On My Way Home

No one is perfect
That’s not for me to say
What is perfect anyway?
I know I’m not perfect
To the standard I believe
Does this mean I’m broken?
Not necessarily

They speak of sin
In ways I don’t understand
Sin is much more than a simple action
It is the very corruption
The mud and muck endured each day
Drudging through
At times to exhaustion
Striving to become more
Than the corrupt nature
That is imperfection

There is no easy way
In fact, the more I pray
The more difficult it seems
Ask for greater wisdom
Greater challenges arise
To form that wisdom
Ask for more strength
Greater pressure occurs
To bring about that strength

If life were merely a playground
As so many want it to be
No worries no cares
No need to do anything
Wouldn’t it be nice
To be free of this corruption
Even when given into
It only makes things more difficult/painful
Maybe some are made for this world
I can testify I am not
It doesn’t like me
And I see only the challenge
Of passing through it’s insanity
On my way home