There is a little, little man
In a big, big house

A louse, a grouse
Smaller than a mouse

He tweets and tweets
Slandering pandering

Mouse squeaking
With all he’s got

A hurricane ****
A sneeze breeze

He’s
******

I sit with an empty page in front of me
And an even emptier mind.
Frustration boils inside of me
But still no words come...

I let my head fall into my hands.
For what is a writer,
A poet,
Without her words?

Darling, I want to come home.
Home to your arms,
Home to the soothing,
Sweet rhythm of your heartbeat.

I want to dive into the depth of your eyes,
To curl into your warmth,
To drift off to the sound of your laugh.

My handsome prince,
My peace in the storm,
My love for you is deeper
Than any river or ocean.

I am aching to come home,
I am aching to rush into your arms...

I am aching, lovely.
Won't you hold me?

He leads me gently.
Yet.
Firmly.
With His Shepherd's
rod and staff.
Through every mountain
and valley.
Warning me to stay on
His path.
But then...
the Wolf comes.
He lures me.
He entices me.
To desire.
To lust after.
What my eyes see.
To crave the things
which do not satisfy.
To spend my wages
feeding on ashes.
Instead of the Bread
of His Word.
And His Presence.
I buy into the lie.
I stray.
I go my own way.
As my Shepherd looks on...
grieved and righteously angry.
He sorrowfully.
But sternly.
Breaks me with His rod.
To bring me back into the fold.
Back close to His heart.
He disciplines me in
His Love.
To spare me more pain.
Down the road.
To keep me near Him,
and in His arms enfold.
I cry out for mercy.
He hears my humble plea.
And.
Rescues me.
In tears of repentance
and desperation.
I fall on my knees.
His Blood washes over me.
And makes me clean.
I stand to my feet.
With renewed strength.
And lift my hands.
In praise.
In praise of His mercy.
In praise of His Love.
In praise for all He is.
In praise for my redemption.
In praise.
For His Shepherd's
rod and staff.
For He never fails.
To lead this wayward sheep.
Back to His path.

we we taught as children how to dress, to walk, to smile

we were trained to be products, to be put out there for mass consumption

for men to pick, the pick of the bunch, they are after

a pretty smile, golden hair

in this fairytale, I am a rejected doll, tossed off a converbelt

I long to be made pretty,
dresses and curls

but men do not want a thing
to fix, they are not courting
challenges

I have searched, travelled oceans,
watched pink blossom fall from
a tree, sensing a way out

I pick my stitches out,
expose my seams, my cotton
heart

fall to the floor, in bits,
ready to be sown and made

new again

In this rule book I carry till the day I die,
first lesson is; you have to learn to lie,
and cover those wounds with a wistful sigh,
'cause penguins wouldn't be loved the same if they could fly.