Who Presses Send

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Who Presses Send

I didn’t wake up holy, I woke up late,

Phone buzzing debts, another sealed fate.

Coffee tastes bitter, mirror won’t lie,

I ask what’s wrong, but I don’t ask why.

I try to be good, I try to be strong,

But every intention bends itself wrong.

I say “Creator, help,” then rush my day,

Forgetting the words before they decay.

I think I decide when to finally pray,

When pain gets loud or hope runs away.

But the cracks showed up before I could choose,

Like a script already written, I just read the cues.

The what wasn’t money, or peace, or relief,

It was seeing my heart as a professional thief.

Stealing the moment, the credit, the light,

Calling it freedom while losing the fight.

The when wasn’t planned, wasn’t marked on a chart,

It came when the ego ran out of smart.

When excuses collapsed and the mask finally slipped,

That’s when the prayer got honest, not scripted.

The where wasn’t church, or lesson, or room,

It was inside the wreckage, the dust, the gloom.

Between who I wanted to be and who I became,

In that narrow space where nothing’s to blame.

And the who… that one shattered my pride,

Because I wasn’t the author standing outside.

I didn’t start crying because I was wise,

I cried because Someone removed my disguise.

The Creator didn’t wait for me to be clean,

He built the mess so I’d finally see.

He caused the lack, the fall, the delay,

So the prayer would be real when it found its way.

I thought prayer was words, said right, said well,

But it’s the scream that escapes when the ego fails.

Not spoken by lips, not polished or neat,

But born when desire admits defeat.

And the Ten—God help me, they weren’t the crowd,

They were the mirror that spoke too loud.

Every friend reflected what I wouldn’t face,

Until my prayer lost its personal place.

Because the prayer wasn’t for me, that’s the crime,

It was for us, in this broken time.

For one heart stitched from pieces and scars,

Not asking for comfort—but resemblance to stars.

So who causes the prayer?

Not the mouth, not the mind,

But the One who breaks you with surgical kindness in time.

He pulls every string, every fall, every bend,

Until your heart finally presses Send.