A Psalm of the Writer’s Praise
Kehinde Margret Makinde@kehindemargretmakinde
1 month ago
O Lord, my Creator, You formed me with purpose.
Your word zephyr life into my soul.
There was a time I did not know the language of myself.
You, however, who created mentation and dye,
reached into the hollow of my mind,
whittled out the words.
Your spirit pressed into me, like hands profiling Potter’s earth.
Your are the Word that lives, the Word that breathes,
yet You gave yourself to me —
To the splintered mess of my mind,
to the trembling fingers that write what I cannot always say.
You did not simply give me words;
You made me of them.
You made my being desire to stream,
to spill Your sphinx on undetected zones,
onto screens and sheets that hunger for Your Messages’ thirst.
What power is this—
that you made me a narrator?
That you let me gather Your light
and scatter it through the fragile vessel of pens and keyboards?
Words shift through me, breathing, spirited, and inexorable.
They ache to express what lies beyond my flesh.
Each letter burns with purpose to fuse with it's kind.
Each phrase, a bridge between the boundless and decrepit.
In nights that did not cheer their voices,
when creation feels like a cyclone,
I sense You, still longing, still propelling —
to see Your essence spread in stories,
to hear Your onomatopoeia carried through sentences I did not own.
It is not my hand, Lord.
It is Yours, stretching through me ,
writing Yourself into the hearts of those
who will taste these words,
and hear something eternal innuendos to their souls.
You are my vibration, my sense, my phlogiston.
How can I not rave You?
When You have made me pour forth words,
that tend consciousness, glitter imaginations, and haul veracity into luminosity, that my creativity may in time's lifespan profess Your Majesty.
#poetry
#psalm
#writing
#inspiration
#Creator
#creation
#muse
