always telling you to write poems because your brain holds a pen like it was born that way.
Like it was made to spin to wind and run and dispel so many of the mysteries that have destroyed and created quandary, confusion, blindness, and sight.
Your brain holds a pen like bluebirds have nests and foxes have dens always chirping and preaching that the running of orphans and black sheep can cease; that their drifting can end and that because of the son of man’s tramped and torn life we will have a home, we will find that home and that it doesn’t matter where we came from or who we have been.
always telling you to write poems because your words are far from cheap.
And every time you put your thoughts down your two cents roll out and make the first payment towards a disheveled child’s future, a lost sojourner’ way, a promise that hope is so much more than a 4 letter idea to imagine or make up
because you actually believe it
you actually live it
because it has cost you your whole life and somehow managed to give you back everything more than you or i or any ever spoke, or claim & named.
always telling you to write poems because i know that every person you ever meet is the best story that you have ever read- and when you turn the pages its never because you are seeking to finish so much as simply looking, searching, digging, and reaching for the beginning.
The beginning of that tattered and frayed blood red chord of redemption that runs standard through everyone’s – EVERYONE’S God awful, God beautiful life –
tragedy turned comedy
comedy turned epic
epic turned timeless, priceless classic;
Turned ashes to ashes and dust to dust, naked we came and naked we will damn leave
And not because its sexy not because its enchanting but because and ONLY BECAUSE that is IT-
That is The Story, the one story that we all get with one pen, that same pen that I said looked so right held tight in your white-knuckled fist dearly pressed against your skull because it never forgets and we both know that it sure as hell never erases but its been washed,
its been sanctified by the tears of grief that maybe you yourself can’t cry but I know you’re moved by which bled out the Savior’s burning eyes the night the world kissed that divine Palestinian skin with the same filthy lips that made prophets come apart- the same filthy lips that for the joy set before Him , He came and buried His perfection into this fragmented crust so that we could know the light from the dark
so that even when no one could get it right you… could still give life
when you would just write.
telling you to write poems, love
and not to worry if they sound okay or if they make sense or whatever that bullshit reason was that you don’t write poems
because your brain holds a pen-
Your were born so your brain would hold this pen.