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Some Kind of Poetry

And it was some kind of poetry
That spilled from my heart before
Jumbled and messy
Like back when I was four
Or perhaps that was fourteen
All the world before me
Always using someone else’s wings
Mine too broken and dirty
Lift me up, lay me down to sleep
For these forgotten words I weep
They were songs and poems
Fairytale and stories
That my heart dreamt while sleeping
And my hands wrote while daydreaming
And oh, as I remember them
Soft and sweet like a lullaby
Maybe something even better 
Than my mother’s voice at bedtime
They were my words
They were my hopes
They were my soul
Pretty and ugly
And bare and full
They were some kind of poetry
That’s all I remember now
Rhythms and steps—that a younger me had found— 
That the me of today—all grown up and proud— 
Can never know, can never sing
Again aloud

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Eden

I have seen her
Walking through a garden
It was named after her
Paradise

She was not alone
Creatures kissed her name
Hell on their lips
Sin 

A man stood beside her
Arm draped strong and heavy
From his shadow she tried to climb
Fallen

A seed, a thought
It weighed her heart heavy
A seed, a thought
Dirty

Blame like stone
Fingers pointed and shamed
Two bites to an apple
Unforgiven

Let him who is without sin
Cast the first stone
My sin is your sin
Knowledge—all this we now know

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Prisoner

I have always been a prisoner
— Shackles around my wrists and ankles —
But it is the leather on my throat that confines me,
Bites my voice so I cannot speak,
Restricts my lungs so I cannot breathe.
You can paint them gold, but I can still see the strings,
All these prettied up strings, all wrapped around me.
Oh what an idea, to be free:
To have no chains on me.

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She Is A Wonder

She is not what he imagined:
A universe of stars trying to hide behind the sun.
He paints her
With a body made of stars and hair colored twilight,
she peaks from behind a burning sun, eyes shining with the Milky Way.
She is a galaxy inside a girl.
And she is a wonder.