Truth is the word
That we’ve always
embroidered
Onto my pillow
But instead
It’s that I’ve never had
Enough knowhow
To sew my
Secrets anywhere
Except the
Soft, pin-cushiony
Pink of my lips
It is always you
With truth shears in
The hand you’re always
Extending
That sets them
Free
To fly and
Find light
Your work on
Our tapestry
With little fingers
And quiet tenderness
That many
Will never
Feel
Your vision
Of our bigger picture
Unravels before me
Making more sense
With Every stitch
When I leave my
Heart
In places so
Cold
You help me
Pull strings
To drag me back
To myself
You remind me
That my fabric is
Fragile and
Precious,
But never to fear
Cutting away
What no longer
Fits
Being Raggedy Ann
Always comes with
Its share
Of loose threads
And I’m forever
Thankful
That you
Tie them,
Hands un-judging
In knots
As intricate
And beautiful
As your soul.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 12:47 PM UTC
Truth is the word
That we’ve always
embroidered
Onto my pillow
But instead
It’s that I’ve never had
Enough knowhow
To sew my
Secrets anywhere
Except the
Soft, pin-cushiony
Pink of my lips
It is always you
With truth shears in
The hand you’re always
Extending
That sets them
Free
To fly and
Find light
Your work on
Our tapestry
With little fingers
And quiet tenderness
That many
Will never
Feel
Your vision
Of our bigger picture
Unravels before me
Making more sense
With Every stitch
When I leave my
Heart
In places so
Cold
You help me
Pull strings
To drag me back
To myself
You remind me
That my fabric is
Fragile and
Precious,
But never to fear
Cutting away
What no longer
Fits
Being Raggedy Ann
Always comes with
Its share
Of loose threads
And I’m forever
Thankful
That you
Tie them,
Hands un-judging
In knots
As intricate
And beautiful
As your soul.
