Purpose

They say that life is a road we must travel, Yet some walk on thorns while some ride on gravel. We race toward a finish we cannot define, Trading our hours for things that will shine. And I, with a heart full of futures unborn, Stitch dreams to the sleeves of the coat i have worn. Tell me, what is the prize at the end of the race, If we lose who we are just to finish in first place?

I've watched men mortgage their souls for a chair, Then sit at the table with nothing to share. We hang our worth where the strangers can see, Like price tags on things that were meant to be free. They call us tomorrow, then lock up today; Give children the future, take their childhood away. And the world keeps applauding the tallest disguise, While the truth sits barefoot, with dust in its eyes.

My mother's prayers were stitched into my clothes, A warmth I could feel when the cold wind arose. Trust in the Lord; He will show you the way. But faith is a candle that questions the day. I have knelt with my doubts like a thief at God's door, Afraid of the answers, yet begging for more. If heaven has mapped every road I must roam, Why does my soul feel like a stranger at home?

I've buried old versions of me in the ground, Yet hear their footsteps when nobody's around. My past grows like roots through the floor of my chest, Drinking from wounds I have never confessed. But I am not the sum of the ways I have failed, Nor the ship that I was when the last storm prevailed. Somewhere beneath all the wreckage and rust, A purpose still breathes where the world buried trust.

Let the wealthy build towers that scratch at the sky; I've seen greater kingdoms in one mother's sigh. I've seen fathers become strangers to home, Making sure their children would never walk alone. We chase after gold till our own hands grow cold, Then wonder why love is the thing we can't hold. What use is a crown if the head underneath Has forgotten the language of kindness and peace?

I still have my questions; they sleep by my bed, Like letters from strangers I cannot leave unread. But perhaps we grow wings from the weight of our falls, And perhaps purpose is born in the cracks of our walls. If tomorrow arrives with no answers in hand, I'll plant what I can in this unforgiving land. For life owes me nothing, no promise, no throne; But I can leave seeds where the barren winds blow. And if all I discover before I depart Is how to live truthfully, with an unguarded heart, Then let history forget every word that I say; I was here. I was learning. I lived my own way.