I have a voice.
I have a voice that often toys with the idea of being loud,
and like chips ahoy, which turned out to be cookies instead of chips,
I’d expose my past shyness as simply a decoy.
But what would I say? There are too many exterior voices that try to be mine, and with ulterior motives they say they’re superior to my conscience. “Eat this fruit,” whispers the snake from the garden of Eden, and like Eve I bit deep into his so called secrets.
I bought into McDonald’s “Bababa I’m lovin it,”
thinking that if I just drink one more smoothie I’d seem a little less self -conscious about my weight,
and those late night fries might actually create
that path to the golden arches of “cool kid"
but you’re a fool, kid,
if you actually think man’s favor can be won by flavors, but still I savored
the façade that I could build around myself,
it was a lifesaver - sweet on the outside, but empty in the middle -
there was a hole
that I tried to fill with apathy.
This generation’s new thing is something called a hipster,
so I tried to become hipper,
telling everyone I didn’t care about my hair while desperately searching for that right kind of casual thoughtless flair,
ironic, huh, that what’s now iconic is someone who doesn’t care about the consequences but will just do it, nike, wait that’s too mainstream, we might as well go barefoot because we can’t bear the thousand foot deep pit of responsibility that comes with real conviction,
so leave me to my fiction.
But still I listened to those exterior voices,
bought the mascara to mask the area they called the window to my soul,
and the lipstick made my lips stick closely together
just in case my voice might give away the fact that my entire being was only a lie,
some poor imitation of what society deemed worthy,
with no real opinion about law or race,
just spoon fed in haste,
until I swallowed every last pill.
I became the lesser version of Barbie,
perhaps not as skinny but definitely as plastic,
I was the cool kid, who started trends by follo- follo- following trends,
I was just a broken record repeating facts from a magazine
until I fell.
And I became not just waste, but a reflection of waste,
a projection of that unstable fable named cool.
But something quite supernatural began to happen.
A new voice called to me from the emptiness, it sounded different.
All the others said, “Do this, and you will be happy,”
But this one said, “No. Nothing you do will make you happy, for the only source of joy comes from what has already been done.” And he was referring to none other than the one I used to curse- Jesus Christ-
Wait, wait, do I have to stop my poem here?
As if the name “Jesus Christ” is appropriate only as a curse word but not as a savior?
As if the idea of having a voice is all good and powerful until I mention my religion?
The reason I’m no longer a reflection of waste is because of my God,
and the reason I can love instead of bask in my apathy is because of my God,
and I long to cry out in sheer exclamation,
this new voice that I’ve been given,
these new thoughts and opinions so countercultural – I mean, who even reads the bible anymore-but I find myself back in square one once again,
with a voice that often toys with the idea of being loud,
but so oppressed by what they now stress as being “politically correct,"
just don’t be too direct about all that spiritual stuff.
Riddle me this, why is my God such a sensitive topic?
If the people of the renaissance treasured knowledge and searched for truth,
is it not notable then that they studied scriptures since their youth?
Maybe there IS some truth in a Trinitarian God,
but how can we search for truth if religious conversations are taboo?
You say “don’t you dare push your beliefs on me”
but what if it’s my life and testimony?
So let my timid voice speak for just one second about my savior called Christ, who, because he was 100% God and 100% man, was able to live the perfect life I could not live, paid the debt I could not pay, there’s no other way but him, and through him,
I became human.
no longer plastic,
the change quite drastic.
You don’t have to believe it, but this is truth-
that I am no longer the same.
And my heart can genuinely sing, without any artificial flavoring or added sweetener,
“bababa I’m lovin it.”
I have a voice.