Writing the way I was created but do I

A sea like an endless book

stretching out page upon page of lives, words
of writers, poets, people, 

bloggers....
And how do you find a voice, your own,
among all the tides which set adrift
and scatter the word you would say?
Words are not our own because all things
derive spiritually one way or another
and yet in this, I am my own.
And I am His and He made me this way,
but do I know which way "this way" is?
And I string "and"s because I'm always living in the "and".
It's how I am, living one sentence to the next and finding
them all connected and....
Aren't we all an "and" in life living and adding to the breadth of who we are?
Each created uniquely different and this is how
words though same are still different, because we are.
Different.
And instead of celebrating difference a Liar makes different as something better
for someone else
better words everywhere but right where I am
and it's the trap of being someone else and never who I was born to be.
Difference gives range, casting words far
from one person to the next and no two being exactly same
and I love each way He writes through each of them, whoever the "them"s may be.
Without range, only a speck of water would be had, instead of the sea.
And there's the spice, in difference and why not let mine be differed in this word-y sea.
And yet I wonder how they are? if they are?
Not just some shadowing wave.
Most days I feel fully there--living, writing for One and only being a someone uniquely created
to live only me and write "this way" He writes me.
And I want to stand in this structure He breathed life
erected all for me and {Him}, uniquely built, Cornerstone to roof,
and write the way He uniquely pens all His Word in me
 and be different while out to sea.

I shared this at Emily's "Imperfect Prose".