a poem about poetry

if i used my words

less cryptically 

maybe i'd reveal 

too much.

this throbbing,

raw wound

wouldn't be glorified

at all as 

beauty

and everyone might 

see the horror

and the agony

in loving

deeply 

the ones who've 

caused your pain.

maybe if i made 

myself

less a mystery

then people might 

understand more;

like the ones 

closest to me.

but i've realized 

in trying to understand

myself

that i don't want to be 

known by the wounds

others have made

or in the way

i deal with 

this pain.

because these things,

i've learned,

are not what define me.

and that,

is how the healing 

begins

in realizing that our

wounds are not 

in the slightest our

identity.

so maybe using cryptic

words to 

reveal this pain

is my desperate need

for honesty.

i am covered 

in the blood of 

these wounds 

that were left on me.

this burden is 

still 

so heavy 

that i cannot bear

to carry it alone,

for the agony.

he has shown me,

that though 

there is sorrow

for the 

pain

this is not 

at all where 

i am to stay.

i have the hope 

that one day

i can touch these

wounds 

and they will be

merely marks;

translucent

 scars.

then i will

be able to tell 

my story

in freedom

and i can let 

him be glorified

for the grace 

and mercy 

the redeemer 

has shown me.

for mamma

I see the strength in your eyes

blue like the sea

after a storm

when the rugged winds

threatened to destroy us;

calm like the rain

that brings hope to this dry,

broken land.

though you always tell me

you feel weak

what you don't know

is that you taught me

everything i know of

true strength and bravery.

i won't deny, 

i've seen your hands shake,

i was there

on the days your eyes

refused to stay dry

and your voice was a silent,

aching plea for the 

burden to be lifted off

your shoulders,

when you couldn't speak the 

words of exhaustion

for all the sorrows

your heart carried.

and those days,

they did change me.

maybe some innocence 

was lost for the grief

but it taught me that showing pain

is not the same as being weak.

and that is something,

that has sculpted me.

you think i don't know

how much this pain hurts you,

but i've seen you hurt for others enough

to know you feel this, too;

for you carry me with you.

your aching burden is not weakness,

though many see it that way,

they merely do not have the strength 

to love as deeply as you do.

when i was young, you'd hold me

when the night terrors 

came to frighten me,

you'd tell me stories of 

a savior 

who calmed the seas,

you spoke to me of his wings

and how his feathers covered me;

those were the first marks 

his love left on my heart.

i wish you knew that

those are the verses 

that i still carry, always.

in a world full of pain and sorrow

where it's impossible to venture out

beyond the safety of youth

without 

being wounded by this worlds

brokenness,

i'm so thankful you gave me

the truth to guide me.

though you couldn't protect me,

from everything,

you taught me of the love of 

our messiah,

who is the greatest healer.

and that, is the most valuable

thing.

i mean it when i say, 

you're the strongest woman 

i've ever known.

we break, and we break

some girls write songs

or poetry 

about boys who broke

their hearts

and left them with the 

fragmented pieces

as they

try desperately to 

fit them back together

into something

not even

 resembling 

what they 

once were

all the while 

 not accepting 

that loving means

we break

and

we break.

and though i could

write pages and pages

just describing the pain,

i won't because i choose

to forgive you 

even in the agony of

the bleeding wound

you made.

but,

if my tears were measured

in mason jars

there would be enough 

to fill up every room 

and every hallway

of this little house.

if it was summer 

you could sit 

in the back yard,

resting your feet 

over the edge

 of the pool,

emptying all 

the evidence of 

my pain

until you had 

enough salt water

to swim in.

if weeping could

be silent

then no one would

ever know

that i hardly sleep 

some nights.

the thoughts that

haunt me

in the dying twilight

they certainly aren't pretty

though i've learned not

to rely on 

the things that promise

they'll numb me

when my aching heart

pleads for 

comfort and for peace.

some girls 

they write bitter poetry,

and i'm trying my best

to write in honesty,

but i don't 

believe that 

bitterness would do 

anything but 

poison my heart.

all that would happen

is the fragile air

in this house

would become damp

again

moldy from the 

lack of light,

from shutting the 

world outside.

so every time i'm tempted

to deadbolt the 

front door,

and shut out 

all the pain for

the burden

i carry for you

i remember the 

dreadful thing a 

broken heart becomes

when you let 

anger build stiff walls

around the wounds

of your heart

that someone 

you've loved deeply

has made.

instead i've learned

to give this agony

and sorrow

to the greatest healer,

the one who knows

every bit of my pain.

what would we become?

if we thanked him 

not only for the blessings

but for the trials

he allows

for if we let him

he'll redeem 

all of our sin and 

brokenness.

if i am nothing 

without 

Yashua's love

than i cannot allow

unforgiveness 

in my heart;

not even in the 

smallest of ways.