A Writer’s Faith

I try to carve her

from hallowed words in my thesaurus,

but maybe she isn’t one person.

Perhaps she is a chorus

of harmonious dissonances

gurgling from honeyed ash-like timbre choices,

one shared mosaic face

with a kaleidoscope of voices.

Or at least this is the lie I tell myself

to ignore the stirring in my bones,

to maintain saintly composure

knowing full well

my pen only coalesces collectives

to destroy them.

This is my confession of being

composed of fragments.

I swallow back my contained multitudes

and I often lament

over her or him or them or whomever I’ve yet to forge

in stories yet to be told

being laced with permeating cracks

I cannot afford to fill with gold.  

Jaded shards of past and pain,

crystalline mica of future and joy,

I choose you to croon this twisted tune,

to unflinchingly render

hymn-singing brokenness with me.

Otherwise, I would remain a fraud

to myself and to the people I love,

reaching for hollowed words,

to fill schisms and to heal split skin.

I repent of ever believing

I could perform miracles by my own power,

especially in my own ego-ed dreams.  

This is shattered

This is splintered

This is unkempt

This is raw

This is salivating

This is infuriating

This is fragment

This is hell-bent

This never knows

This never has known

how to resolve itself,

to be content

as a coherent reconciled whole.

This is restlessness

This is cowardice

with me hiding behind it

This is me in all honesty

This is me

And I pray, Dear God,

 I pray that this,

 that I, that she, that he, that they,

that whoever, are redeemable.

This is my supplication of longing

for a new me.