My Best Is Never Enough

My best is never enough.

Keep moving
further up and further in.
Away from this.
My defense kicks in
without permission
because my spirit is willing,
but not my flesh.

I subdue it anyway.

Only my ego bruised,
I choose
to write
to paint
to read
to cry
to pray.
I let it go,
in the wake of a joy not mine.

I swallow my pride
and smile.
Because I know better
than to assume
malice.

Responsible to,
not responsible for,
I remember.

My weakness
rebelling.
My spirit smiles, still willing.
Grateful even,
that I am not the only one
to carry such burdens
anymore.

YET…

I cannot reach out
alone.
Why?

I cannot have a joy of my own.
Why?

I must weigh other burdens in the
balance of every decision.
Burdens I did not purchase.
Packages full of
fragile angst
and struggle
and delicate
eggshells everywhere.

Precarious and sharp.
I. Can’t. Move.
Why?

My joy is held prisoner to
light and temporary misery
not my own.

I eat crow
you make for me.
Over and over.
And now I wonder why.

I cannot open this can of worms,
for I would have to eat it all myself.

Because my best is never enough.

I wrote this years ago, and it has been sitting in my drafts folder. This is a struggle long behind me, but I sometimes find myself repeating the lesson.

Grace & Peace,
Tiff

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