Sat, 07/22/2017 - 16:12 -- jenenb7

Who I am can only be described in words that have no syllables 

and stories that never end.

I was there in the garden, 

under the trees, made from Adam.

Born into life, 

soul in my lungs, 

I was loved. 

But disater struck,

my people fell down.

I am to blame.

I was not the one .

But, oh my soul yerned.

Oh my pain was never unquinched 

I ate of the fruit.

I slept naked.

I bore the sins of my foolishness.

I was not the one .

But oh how love came through!

How evil did not turn its face to glory!

How beauty unmasked my hideousness in a world of shame!

How my love overcame the world!

How God forgiveness made me!

I am the one!

The one who was lost, but is found.

I am.

I am.

I am.

I am Jene'.

Made of blood and love;

woven from peace, 

out from the darknesss,

burried in shawdows of pain that I have not felt,

I am the one. 

And my story will never belong to me.

I am the one.

This poem is about: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741