I Cannot Stop

Do not cup Your hands,
for the overflow You will receive
is naught but baby screams,
rain, worry, and drenching insecurity.
I should not be alone,
for the stream of self-focusing
is neither remotely useful
and is, in fact, intensely unhealthy.
Oh, why do not Your hands move
to stop the sins that I cannot.
Daily tempted to tell temptation
I am on top, or at least in thought,
my dedication such that I can cry
when in confession, when in conscience,
actions hold bitter oppression
but my selfishness requests Your silence.
For if You speak, it will be
like a pouring, enduring rain.
The dryness cannot resist,
overcome and by the essence,
the presence, of change and texture
runs, soft to mud, and moldable since
You have let loose a torrent,
and with hands above head, umbrellas,
prayers and shouts, I cannot stop it.
Only a storm to sit and to tell
that all within, all discipline, not well.
Despite the way I press on,
despite the goodness of the song,
I fear my thirst will linger on,
for only You can quench it.