We're all the rap-chattle of the world
The odds and ends of broken finger bones
and type-cast surfaces.
Men and women from every walk of life
Welcome here to the ragged masquerade.
Poets and bleeders, and ballers and readers
Scrapped and trapped in a lonely loop,
The rule here is
Behind poetry we hide
The wide windows of our eyes
Behind computer screens.
Lo behold like a dream,
You wake an recall what you've forgotten.
Here we stand
the whole world wide yawning before us.
All creation claps its hands
The Creator longs to restore us.
How many stories to be told?
Just one, all I have, I know
The glory does not belong to me
I long to tell, of Him, you see.
Just what the Master means to me.
You see we're all skittish poets
From the master Poet's hand
Forged of clay and copper
Broken doll limbs, life and-
All the merry breakers of this world demand-
But we stand on the Master's hands.
I am a skittish poet bleedings schisms of skittish color
Born the undertakers daughter
and twice shy of death before three.
I became the snarling hopeless
In the wake of broken family.
There is nothing redeemable in me,
Nothing redeeming in me either
I get the first row glimpse of my self
Front row, I spit in Christ's face daily
God, but my God is it a crowd pleaser.
Why do I tell you this?
The MAster-Man guised as a Samaritan
-Good? Certainly, robed in majesty-
Walked down the road to pick up my ragged bleeding form
When all others passed me by.
But I being myself loved the dirt and the anger
Cleansed myself with filth and made myself dirtier.
Be realistic now, don't we all?
He reached for me and I swung at Him.
He picked me up and I pissed on Him,
He cleansed my wounds,
I reopened them,
No end to my spite it seems.
But He opened me eyes
And it was wonderful
He opened my ears
I finally could see,
He opened my heart,
It was agony
I finally see,
Nothing good in me.
Despairing but hopeful,
Because you see...
Christ was good.
As I could never be.
And He gave His rightness.