so I thought I wanted to control every piece,
to put in order and stuff into sensical straights
all the ways my life colors outside the lines
I thought I could force my body to stretch so far
and hold so fast that nothing is left behind,
not even the smallest hope or dream outside my reach
I thought that this holding together would be, well, the life of me
I thought if I held everything together I would stay in tact too.
...because a great, monstrous fear is to unravel
until only a heaping mess of life-yarn remains
now, if I could put a lasso around what most confuses me
and all the ways my randomness leaves disasters
of colors and shapes and people stranded
if I could somehow capture this crazy, inner, picasso-sized mess
and train it, conform it, teach it, mold and shape it...
until finally it becomes standard and organized and disciplined
then my guilt might not have such a strong voice
to guide and scream and gnaw and attack and whisper
at all the things I haven't done or all the ways I've failed
but, now I see my thoughts are incomplete
can I hope for perfection by imperfect means?
does another failure and more guilt await
after this hopeful process of control?
inspired by chapters 10/11 of Reason for God by Timothy Keller
write your own poem this month in the spirit of April=poetry month!
let LOVE FLY like cRaZY