Prayer of A Wandering Mind

Who am I? What am I? In comparision to the Divine?

Anxiety and restless fear settles in the pit of my stomach.
I am trapped, God, trapped inside a layer of skin and bones.
Some days, I seem to only by a compilation of...
bundled together emotion, and yet other days...
other days, I'm as cold as ice, and harder than stones.

Stones, stones, why am I speaking of stones?
Imagination carries my thoughts down a bubbling brook,
where it speaks to me with rippling words...
the words of water flowing amongst imperfect pebbles.
Spoken, insightfully penetrating; balm soothing the blows I took;
or liquid seeping through the cracked stones surrounding me.

I apologize, God, sometimes my mind becomes so crowded,
and what I cannot express to anyone else
bleeds over - it must release - staining our conversation.
I confide, skipping and tripping along, speaking with you,
then trail off, like smoke from a doused fire, losing myself.

How irrelevant; you write and re-read my life like a book;
you've known every scene, to each speck of dirt, since my birth.
When I ramble on, forgetting myself, exposing my unconscious thoughts,
maybe you're happier, hearing me tell you what I can tell no other person.
I write of anger, depression, happiness, love, even doubting my worth;
who knows what else, but no one will ever know, perhaps no one ought.

Author's Note

Thoughts?