this cliché is blaringly foreign: this pseudo-
shallow, callow kind of disabling of words
renders my poetic style completely irrelevant.
7 years of orphaned poetry. the perpetual
depression of melancholic indentation
jabbed with pain that strikes the heart-and-eye
the punch line, the throbbing ring of naked-hollow
sorrow, the aesthetic grief of rhythm and rhyme
the lament of broken words, haunted
by past-present reality, abused into
submission, trial after trial after trial trial trial
yet here i sit today, prayer and pencil in hand
somehow, at some point, you've changed me.
this feeling of saplings and children and dreams and new gifts—
i'm so happy. bubbly. artlessly excited by the joyful futility
of grasping at connotations and definitions and banal phrases.
Jesus, teach me to express despite words this new thing
of being loved by you. i your healing, lovable daughter.
because now i realize:
i love you still, like a sunflower to the sun.
You love me creative, as poetry could never detail, for You can't be contained in these tiny,