How much reality resides within the pages of the stories that we tell ourselves?
What monumental lies pollute the purity of truth?
Who is cast as hero or heroine, villain and superhero?
How long have these stories controlled endings and snuffed out beginnings?
Who decides the mask being adorned to cover that which lies beneath?
In the stories that we tell ourselves, what vibrancy have we become color-blind to?
What is now smeared with lackluster appeal, stripped of breathtaking beauty?
How long has the role of victim been on debut?
What subpar mediocrity governs our potential?
Which cries have been in vain and laughs been silently forfeited?
What fact has been traded for fiction and what faith has been traded for fear?
Is their room for the Author and Finisher in these stories that we tell ourselves?
Have we thought to remove ourselves from the story to see what He can do?
Can we ask for truth to shine bright and strip the story of deceit?
When we invite the Author to the story, can the truth not be set free?
Who, Father do you say that we are?
What, Father were we created to do?
How, Father can we stop these stories that we have told ourselves and rewrite the truth?