Wrap Me In Word Turned Flesh

I read the words,

Lead them like a shepherd

and carry them in your arms

forever.

A song plays. announcing

fear stunting my bones,

making me cry quietly.

I can’t do this alone,

yet I’m trying still.

My heart weighs down

a thought: time is running

out, hurry up! Throbbing,

I am Abraham, pleading.

Please Lord, don’t be angry

with me. I am weak, needy,

do not where to turn. I do not

wish death along with the wicked.

I am only dust, but oh Lord,

grab my hand as Lot’s—hesitant lipped,

my tears keep falling, my hands keep

twisting—letting my strength dissolve

into your merciful face. I want to run,

lose my breath for laughter’s sake,

not my soul’s cowering at kindest

smile I will know.

I read Jesus set me free,

my anxiety, fear asking help

breaking unblemished back

I long touch under paled fingertips,

where heartbeat waits pace. Place

gentlest hands under these knee

bends, draw me ear to chest—

rhythmic lullaby soothing consistent

frailty.

Sincerely, A Bed

She’s sitting on me again.

She’s curled up, cross-legged

underneath all the blankets.

I think she’s afraid.

No, I know –

she isn’t talking.

Not that there’s another

person who can calm

excitement turned worry.

It’s been days, listening,

holding her up as she sobs,

Jesus, why don’t you love me?

Please give me this, oh don’t

give me that—I don’t want to leave,

perform, shame myself again.

This is pitiful, how she doesn’t believe

her beauty isn’t embarrassed cheeks.

I’ve felt her smile touch me, and I

wish I could imitate such a gesture.

Let her know she’s not alone.

I’d hold her forever inside

my warmth, since this Jesus guy

makes her sad, anxious, angry.

She’s been waiting on him for answers.

The tension in her muscles grows

each day, sinch her bones

first sunk into me.

A friend asked if she’d like

going to church.with her tonight.

She seemed rather excited at first.

I mean, a smile came match quick

from what I could tell anyway.

Then, I felt the sigh I know well now—

the slow burnout through ink.

No doubt a poem.

I think Jesus is going to be at this church.

She has been alone, lonely,

even when she’s around people.

If these people ask questions

at this church, she may cry.

She told another girl yesterday,

she’s quiet with everyone.

She’d rather listen.

I wish she would lean

back into me, her burden

I’d take gladly.

Maybe looking up

could bring this invisible

fear breathing room.

Maybe the prayer would find

her lips again:

My

God

loves

me.

Her moving thumb to finger

reminding she has nothing to fear

Her Father loves her so.

I want her to see with her heart

how much.

This isn’t me, but Father,

I hate seeing this girl weepy.

Give her reason to smile, laugh again.

There’s no sad face during Christmas season!

Author’s Note: Inspired by this awesome story. Thank you, Kristi! ❤

He Already Sees Me This Way

She says, are you feeling okay?

Absolute concern coming

off her tongue, proceeding a follow-

up to my yes. Why are you laying like

that? My body is curled in question

mark form. Rigid. Stiff. Pointed.

Sharp. Period. I don’t answer. But,

you’re okay, right? Yes. I say,

nodding appropriately. I think I lied.

I couldn’t bear saying I don’t know

how to trust Him. Jesus has hidden

His face. Or, I’ve gone more blind.

What if I am cast off forever? What

if I’m doing His will of sitting still

horribly wrong? I’m hungry, not for

the oranges placed in front of me

this morning, but to sit with this Man

who you claim makes me

depressed. Today, a promise

He made, to keep me strong so I

may dwell in blameless friendship

when He finally brings me before

arms everlasting, has me thinking.

What a horrible friend I’ve been,

giving not a second glance His

direction. He says, Darling, how are

you? I hesitate, wanting to say what

my heart keeps waiting to dispel:

I miss You. The way You seem to

sigh unforgettable breath each time

I sing my only hope is You.

My portion and my strength is never

work I complete, a check list You are

sternly to be boxed in. I’m drawn to

show how worthy I am. Not to be

still. Let Him blanket me without

needing tremble as if I am in wrong.

He loves me, this wayward child,

roaming land after land for approval.

I’m the prodigal son and his brother,

staying right where I am, but aching

to spend all of my father’s wealth,

and still be seen special.

If This Is Loneliness, I Am Honest

I wake early where world is hushed,

black bruise turned dark blue.

Lightest whisper coming still

a well to break my will. I do not want,

nor wish to show my weakness, but

my eyes fill with wonder, if lonely

shows my desperation for You.

Someone said this is an intimate cry

for You to hold my doubting face

between compassionate, scarred

hands, simmering with remark:

You are beautiful, there is no blemish

I see. You’ve made mistakes. You

have run and sought idols,

promising: never will I idle you. When

you see they all leave you, you cry,

Doesn’t anyone love me? Why won’t

anyone stay beside me long?

I watch your fall below, as a leaf

draws near the dirtied earth.

Stepped on & over, you forgo love,

burying your brilliant color under

soiled shame. I don’t deserve this,

a whisper caught between your

cracking spine, where I began.

You were a forethought.

The sun & moon could go in night’s

cover. A sparrow could fall mid flight

without their companion. How much

more do I love you! Why do you try

so hard to prove yourself to me?

I don’t care whether you didn’t call,

even though every thought is telling

you to push away the wait. I’m

asking you to be still. Your mind runs

away: I am not being productive. I’m

not doing what I’m told. I’m making

a mistake. I am a mistake. I must be

upsetting You, too. I should move

faster. Fast as these thoughts so I

make You proud. I can’t fail You, too.

Darling, your worry breaks My heart.

I clothe every flower, how much

more I care for the state of your

heart. You do not have to fear,

I am here with you. Do not fear

gazing in My eyes longer than you

are used to. I want you to know

I see you. All the pain. All the fear

whether this is true. I am no human,

but I clothed Myself in skin, tempted

with the riches of the world, tested

by Satan, to throw Myself under to

be lifted high again by angels. You

don’t have to test me. I am your

God, friend who knows the

weakness to believe you are the only

one who is misunderstood, lonely.

I hung on a cross, naked, pinned

with blood all down my body.

My mother cried with my friends,

knowing I was to die.

Stones and whips made Me cry out:

Father, why have you forsaken Me?

Forgive them, for they know not

what they do. I was alone, empty,

afraid. Still, I said, Father, I place My

spirit into Your hands. This is how

I love you. I love you first, before

Myself, so I may come to you every

day with Love upon my lips, glinting

shine in My eyes, waiting to hear you

speak sweetly your request: My face

absent reproach you announce over

yourself.

You Will Not Drown Anymore

I have guns for hands-
no, l don’t try physically hurting
by bruising or cutting myself.

I can’t say I don’t have a semi-automatic tendency to give an
ode to sleep, slipping my hand
where I become highly sensitive.

Numb.

I forget.
Who am I?
Whom do I belong?
Why I am doing this?

I am nowhere.

Covered.
Falling.
Fallen.

Dirt.

Every now & then,
I try to fake You out,
say, “I’m fine. I can handle
this urge to love myself
on my own. Really, I’m okay.”

Then I’m on the run & go,
giving a migraine to my heart.
Thumpthumpthumpthump.
Highlovehighlovehighlove.
Deadbeat soul.

Oh Ms. Believer,
You whisper in a broken air conditioned fever, Though darkness overcame you, Love is still here.
I AM here.

I AM holding on to you,
with the tenderness
of a lover & friend.

God, my mouth is a screen
I leave agape for buggy words.
I watch the pantaloon fall away.

My legs are bare, I don’t hear
the caring tone asking my atonement.

Here, I offer truce-
this sin I have committed
to take myself away from
neediness I deny, take away
the guilt. Let us march

To the sea, I’ll cry: Friend, please,
don’t let me entrap my body in a stalemate air catcher, where I’ll once again die.

Shh. You’re okay.
You’re forgiven.
Home. Trust Me.

Beggar

Let me offer apology
if I can push the word
from the roof of my mouth-

sorry. I’m weak, needy.
I want someone to hold my body.
Let myself go limp into the flesh
of this truth: You are not just holy.
You are holy, holy, holy.

The murder of Your nailed body,
coming up to the right hand
of the Father, back down, proves so.
Fill this house with outstretched arms, so I may fall into eternal rest.

I’m a grief observed, heart cries
silently aching for Your smile
touching my bitter soul.

My hunter, please come
by my side. See me,
hidden amongst green shrubbery,
pricked by the arrows of self-hatred
guilt, and self-pity.

You are the Prince of Peace, I,
the idiot, awaiting for Your aroma
to overwhelm my wilting in this sweltering heat.

Past ghosts whisper:

why would anyone read
a single poem you write.
Apologize for finding yourself.
Oh, look at the time-taking days
this is wasting. Why even try
achieving your dreams?

I should be glad, rejoicing
these troubles will not last.
You are with me every stumble
of the climb in letting go.

Before I slip away, shamefully,
hear the call from my frail voice-
My Friend, show me thy
tenderest mercies.

Clinging To A Truer Need

Hey everyone.

So, I know I’ve posted different thoughts, other than poetry lately. In all honesty, I’ve been trying to stay away from posting every poem I write on here. (Hardest thing for me I’m noticing.)

A conversation I had with another friend who writes, really opened my eyes to a simple truth: if I want to make as a writer, or actually see if I have what it takes, I need to keep it between God and myself until, and if it’s meant to be seen.

I will never understand why it becomes an obsession to share everything as soon as it’s written. It has become like a disease, infecting every part of me. (It’s just as bad with Facebook..)

I will say there a few pieces I haven’t shared here. Though, I feel I NEED to.

Which is why, I’m not going to be posting new pieces for awhile. I think it’s time I start bringing my art to the real and true Author. Let Him erase, scribble or white out my need for the approval of man, and exalt Him.

I’m determined to learn what it’s like to cling to the Writer of my inked being.

Dearest Friend

Dearest Friend,

how many years I have
roamed this land
with your name the last
on my mind.

Maybe tomorrow, I’d say,
watching life dictate meaning
in kisses turned slavery.
I was too young to brush
against poison ivy,
but old enough to know the sickness
within its leaves.

I wonder if during long nights,
you itch to give me answers
we know I’ll misuse.
You come close in images
slowly unfolding before
quaking eyelids revealing
fear.

Reverence is not staring
at a closed door and turning
the other cheek, hoping the
constant rapping will fade–
it is facing You, who knows
the blood collecting in these
wintered cheeks
warmed by shame,

taken in
with scratches,
& loved as the first day
knitted in my Mother’s frame.

Mercy

A ten dollar bill sat in my pocket, form-fitted, & harder to reach that envious paper, whispering, “Hold to me, tight.”
They say because I’m weaker physically, I need to take what I can get.
Washingtons & Benjamins won’t be provided freely forever.

The government can’t be your well of sustainability plays like a symphony-
swelling waters from my eyes, each night when reality looms into my dreams.

God, I’m spending my nights staring at the ceiling, wanting to throw every ounce of green away, away, away-

dig a hole & bury every selfish aim with numbers adding to hundreds I can’t handle properly-I’m using it as a safety net, aren’t I?

I’m entangled in a web only I could weave-constructed with the words of those that don’t believe someone in the sky can provide love through sacrifice.

Okay, I’m afraid to throw everything so
freely given to me so I may glorify my King & I won’t bother giving empty phrases meant to show for an apology-

my actions must be appalling.

I’d love for comforting,
but the touch of Your hand scares me more than my eyes trying to remember a death at Calvary for my freedom-

look at what dying for protection’s sake has done-opened my mouth to bring spit upon the face free of blemishing.