I wish I were better at poetry. 
Yes, I know. I am renowned for my words. I am praised for my truths, shrouded 
in metaphor but clear enough when you take the time to think. My Father’s truths, the truths 
of heaven.
What about my own?
Or are they so tangled up in myth that they don’t exist anymore? 
That’s okay, I suppose. I’ll live. If what I’m doing now can be called living. 
These, however, are questions for the theologians, not for me.