Courtroom Clown Show

I stood in the courtroom,
Not as a rebel—
But as a real one.
And I asked the question
That made their robes itch:

“How am I supposed to change
Something about myself
I don’t even know about myself?”

Silence.
Like I broke a rule.
Like truth needs permission to speak.

My lawyer whispered,
“You don’t ask questions.”
But what’s a courtroom
If not a place where truth should be questioned?

I looked left—
Saw a Bible on the plaintiff’s desk,
Sitting quiet like a hostage,
Closed tighter than their minds.
Holy in form,
But useless in function.

Because this ain’t about justice.
It’s a performance.
A pageant of paperwork
Where the outcome is purchased
And repentance is performed.

They wanted me to pretend.
To play the part.
To nod, smile, plead, pay, bow, and fade.
But I didn’t come for pity—
I came for truth.

So I spoke it.
Loud.
Clear.
Unwelcome.

And in that moment,
The court wasn’t a courtroom.
It was a colosseum.
Where lions wear badges
And judges play God.

But I’ve met the real One.
The One who sees what I don’t yet see in me.
Who calls me higher, not just guilty.
Who doesn’t sentence me to silence
But writes mercy into my sentence.

So no—I won’t stop asking.
Because maybe it’s not defiance.
Maybe it’s deliverance.

And maybe this whole society’s a joke…
But I’m not the punchline.

Location: Dallas, TX, USA

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