Discombobulated
I fling up my arms,
  dismayed.

“What is it you expect
of me,” I demand,
  speaking

    to nobody
    in particular.

The car is empty, save
me and God. We’re
  having

one of those infamous
one-on-one chats, spats,
  temper

    tantrum, demand-
    some-answers rant on.

I’m half-listening to
an interview; man
  of faith

talks calling, vocation –
never mind career.
  He says

     there’s a reason
     why we’re here. Have faith.

I believe faith matters,
but, quite frankly, I’m
  mad as

hell today. I can’t see
any way out or
  way through.

     All I see is
     the devil and you.

Squeezed out of every damn
opportunity to
  express

talents, gifts…No doors have
opened. The windows
  are all

     shut, and stale air,
     staid, suffocating.

The promise – your promise –
always hanging there
  beyond

my reach. What is it you
would teach me, God? What
  is it

     you would say? Did
     I get it wrong, then,

nature of your calling?
Or is it true what
  some say;

you’ve chosen me to be
reluctant prophet?
  Hands tied,

     I do as told
     no matter what’s lost.

Nobody’s listening,
and nobody cares.
  Their stares

and jeers aren’t very fun,
but you’re the One who
speaks not,

    whose still small voice
     remains silent, still.