Questions / Questioning My Own Faith / Story of a Poem


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In my poem Questions I was quite literally questioning my own faith. As I have mentioned in previous blog posts, I was raised with a religious background.

Before I jump into the background of my religious upbringing, I want to make a quick note. I am in no way telling or forcing anyone how to believe or what they should or should not do in their own religious practice.

Okay, back to Questions. When you think of religion you are probably thinking of the faithful few who go to church and follow a certain set of rules. However, I grew up in a Pentecostal background. Sometimes we were referred to as the ‘Holy Rollers’. In a church service, it was not uncommon to hear someone speaking in tongues or getting hands laid on them and passing out at the altar.

I should also share with you that I grew up in a tiny country town in Alabama. Our town population count was in the hundreds. I was also home-schooled. (Again, not endorsing or condemning homeschooling. I personally loved it).

This was 1999. Believe it or not, we did not have internet. There was no such thing as social media available to everyone at the click of a button. Your influencers were your parents and those around you. I barely even had access to a library. So, what my parents believed, I believed. In fact, when I first moved away from home at eighteen, I was hit with a crazy reality that everyone was not a Christian. I did not know there was such a thing as a non-believer, because I had never met one.

Every Sunday in church I witnessed this kind of belief as a seventeen-year-old. A passionate and emotionally driven type of faith. I sat there not understanding why I did not feel what they were feeling. I believed because I was told to believe but I did not feel it.

I longed for passion. I longed not to feel the darkness that comes with not having hope in anything. While I was feeling this way, I sat down and wrote “Questions”. It dives deeper into my feelings at that moment in time.

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Questions


Sitting on my bed feeling useless.

Wishing and hoping for a passion that’s not there.

Wondering why I don’t feel it when everyone else feels.

There are so many questions I often ponder.

Why can’t I change for the better? Get rid of this ugliness inside?

How can I feel love when I only feel compassion?

I want to love but I don’t know-how.

If anyone can help me I can’t find them through this endless mist.

I want to cry but I hold it back.

Is it because of pride or fear from the lack?

I want to swim freely in the river but I don’t know-how.

The tears come but what do they show?

Pain or compassion or both?

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