Tell Me (My Testimony)
Tell me, where is my mic?
When my throat isn't closed-tight
The wind, attacking my soul
I'm losing control
Yet a gentle breeze it is to the young,
To the old.
But how can a hurricane
Sway the hard-headed,
There's no calm ahead.
Only the eyes that are red
Then blue from the dead,
Painting green on the trees
That glorifies the shade.
Tell me, where is my mic?
When I'm not crazy
From the insane images of daisies
With hope in the distance and
Roses caught in mid-sentence.
Where clouds are so high,
Too high to reach
But not a limit to those with expensive planes
First class to a pit of flames
No ejecting option
No rain
No elephant in the room that stinks,
Reeking of their own selfishness.
Tell me, where is my mic?
When me, myself and I
leap with a hand from Him
The one who had tossed the ladder
Made from plastic and "matter"
Of the unrighteous.
To use a breath, instead
A hand, in the land
My eyes that will rise
From the praise that lifts
And the voice that exalts
And my eyes that see
That not all the dirt and grime
Is a curse, but a gift
From all that is holy.
When my scars are a testament
An underlying accident--
No, not an accident
But a story,
A comment,
Of those anointed.
Saved.
So tell me, where is my mic?