I Write Poetry

[center]Instead of Being there was The Word

Watch me as I make myself
Softly into something else
Or maybe I will pen a fire
And burn down my church and all its choir



Sense me as I paint a dream
Of all the moments sleep has seen
Perhaps you will not bear to see
The things that I have made of me



Weaving words like witch’s spell
Until all that’s left inside is hell
As I see myself lit up by word
Yet live each day ashamed, unheard



Stand near or far as in verse I choose
At break of day, which part to lose
And shatter my beauty until nothing’s left
Because being is broken and The Word is bereft[/center]