Change in My Bowls

I must write
    if I want to write, right?
I have the time to make the time
    even the time to rhyme.
So what keeps me from the task, I ask?

My heart should be on fire
    from my desire.
Instead, there's not a puff;
    the heat's just not enough.
If fashion were my passion
    I'd be at the mall, flashin'.
Instead, I creep
    through a heep
    of blank pages. (How cheap!)

I don't want what I wrote
    to sound lazy or rote.
Stale writing that's old
    grows moldy and cold.
Am I afraid
    of a sentence I've made?
Why is it worse
    to hear my own verse?
It's absurd
    that I'd be afraid of a word!
Especially my own
    does it make me groan?

Besides, it doesn't matter a smatter.

There are no souls
    to put change in my bowls.
I hide in my room
    warm, close, like a womb.

I write for me, you see, and also for God.

Are you even there?
    Should I even care?
Yes! No! Nonsense! Beware!
I'm alone with a bone of my own.
    to pick, lick or stick it and moan.
I fight me, God heals me
   I jab at Him and He sets me free.

So comment
    if you wish, on my lament.
Maybe I'll read it someday
    if I wish. Okay!

For now, it's write that I write right now.
Until His words and mine do mesh,
    and my phrases take on life that's fresh.