Beauty is she
The one who holds my heart
It is with her
That I do not wish to part

She left flowers on the inside
Put oxygen in my lungs
Gave me a forever
Of intertwined tongues

She painted my future
Beginning to end
Starting with the broken past
She chose to amend

So as long as she loves me
The flowers will stay
And the oxygen in my lungs
Never will stray

What was it like in your garden, Lord?
Untouched by sin,
innocence in the very air we breathed,
the water we drank,
the soil you created us from.
You created us from the ground up,
from the side of another,
to be beside one another.

How did we live in your garden, Lord?
We were children.
You held our hand
we laughed, we talked, we played with you
created for you
your waters bathed us when we were soiled.
We soiled everything
we were misled
this led to our downfall.

How did he enter your garden, Lord?
Was this meant to be a sanctuary,
were we to be wary?
We knew and ignored
we were bored
we were children
knowing neither of good nor evil,
wanting to be like you.
He made us
You made us
and yet we chose wrong.

Were we to hide in your garden, Lord?
You knew every inch of it
you knew something was different
did regret once cross our minds?
Did we know what we had done?
We became undone
once naked without shame
we put the blame on each other
desperate for cover

We were banished from your garden, Lord,
now ravaged by sin.
Pain echoes within
without you by our side.
Father and Mother
bore brother and brother
uncover the damage done
by the eldest son
am I my brother’s keeper?
Deeper, deeper in debt we grew,
the wages of sin a tab on humanity
this insanity did not end with us.
    
Would this have happened in your garden, Lord?
Can we ever return to your garden, Lord?

if you were a poem,
you would be a poem about a plane
grounded,,
wanting to be in the sky,
wishing, waiting, willing
knowing
that someday you'll be flying high

and if I were a poem
i would be a poem about a bird
drifting,,
dreaming of the land
wishing, waiting, willing
wary
and unsure of where I stand

but you are not a poem
and to be honest, neither am I
for I am just a poet
but someday
we will fly**

((and even though, we are not the same
my emotions drift like sand
i find my peace close to you
my heart safe within your hand))

I looked in the mirror this morning,
And there was a little tiny change,
An older look to my eyes,
My smile was foreign and strange.

My posture was straighter and taller,
My cheeks were thinner and slim.
I'm changing right before my eyes,
And every day I'm at the whim
of Whoever decides what I'll be
When I'm an adult someday.
When make believe no longer appeals to me,
And I've forgotten how to play.

So what I want to say to this elusive Whoever,
what I want to ask of this woman,
Is "Are all these changes the real me?
And is the real me who I am?"

I’ve always cried in secret.
Not by choice;
I just never seem to be noticed
when my heart breaks,
my body quakes,
my resolve is torn asunder.
I never receive the pity
I feel I deserve.
With a twisted face
and clenched fists
I try to hold back
unsightly sobs and gasps for air.

I’m never noticed,
but maybe it’s better that way.
Brokenness is ugly,
and my shards are jagged.

You’re no stranger to this.
They see Your Crown,
Your Side,
Your Hands and Feet.
But people forget
that You carried the Cross
that bore Your Body for hours on end.
They forget
that the Flesh was torn
and every step dug deeper
into Your Shoulder.
They whipped You,
they beat You,
they spat and ridiculed
But the pain of the Cross was constant.
There was no relief
from lifting and dragging
that torturous wood.
Dislocated and raw,
how can they not remember
the deepest Wound of all?

Is that why You gave me
my Wound, Lord?
Is it because I know
how it feels to have pain
not easily recognized?

Let me kiss your Wound, Lord.
Let me clean it and hold it
to my own.
Let me endure my pain
as You did:
with grace and compassion
with strength and integrity
Let me bear my Cross
as You bore Yours.

that sweet orange glow envelops me
as it starts to sing its swan song
but the night is never too kind
for the sunset never gets to finish
and its song remains unsung

however, i do not panic; i do not fret
i know that the sun will have another chance
tomorrow, it will try again
it will sing and it will sing for all its worth

be that sunset
remain vigilant and tireless
sing despite the heavens' determination
to **** your voice,
sing for them as a song so beautiful
the night will remain asleep
and darkness cannot overcome you