1d
A poem for the woman who tried to be responsible... but Cupid didn’t get the memo.
## 💌 “I Asked for Peace, God Sent a Man”
or, "How to Lose Control Without Losing Yourself"
I made a vow in bold ink pen: No dating. No flirting. No men. Four years of healing, solo flight— Just me, my kid, and silent nights.
No butterflies. No drama. No sparks. No poetry penned by hormone arcs. No late-night chats. No soulful sighs. Just Jesus, jungle oats, and early goodbyes.
But then...
He appeared—a sermon in sneakers, With laughter like jazz and soul like speakers. His words? Honey. His mind? A maze. I got lost in both within three days.
I tried to behave. I really did. I recited Psalms. I played dead squid. But my heart was thumping like praise and drums, And my common sense? Gone. She runs.
He says things like, “You’re strong. You’re gold.” My spine goes warm, my coffee goes cold. He's not even trying—and I’m undone. Like a prayer caught flirting with the sun.
And yes, I’m older. Wiser. Bruised. Not exactly someone who’s easily amused. But his smile has grammar. His voice has jazz. And suddenly I’m writing like a giddy lass.
God, I asked for peace, a quiet lane— You sent me hope on a bus called “Maybe Insane.” Now I’m laughing and glowing and blushing bright, Like my soul just lit up a chandelier light.
Do I want him? No comment, Your Honor. But if he called me, I’d write a sonnet for the caller. Still—I’m not leaping. I’ve danced that tune. And heartbreak doesn’t make a great honeymoon.
So I breathe, I scribble, I keep the reigns— Letting feelings swirl like romantic migraines. If it’s Your will, Lord, write it loud. Don’t whisper in my crush-shaped cloud.
Until then, I’ll smile. I’ll ache with grace. I’ll thank You for this strange soul-race. Because even if he’s not my next scene, He reminded me I’m still twenty... in-between.
You’re not broken. You’re just beautifully alive again. The ache is not a failure—it’s evidence of your healing.
## 💌 “I Asked for Peace, God Sent a Man”
or, "How to Lose Control Without Losing Yourself"
I made a vow in bold ink pen: No dating. No flirting. No men. Four years of healing, solo flight— Just me, my kid, and silent nights.
No butterflies. No drama. No sparks. No poetry penned by hormone arcs. No late-night chats. No soulful sighs. Just Jesus, jungle oats, and early goodbyes.
But then...
He appeared—a sermon in sneakers, With laughter like jazz and soul like speakers. His words? Honey. His mind? A maze. I got lost in both within three days.
I tried to behave. I really did. I recited Psalms. I played dead squid. But my heart was thumping like praise and drums, And my common sense? Gone. She runs.
He says things like, “You’re strong. You’re gold.” My spine goes warm, my coffee goes cold. He's not even trying—and I’m undone. Like a prayer caught flirting with the sun.
And yes, I’m older. Wiser. Bruised. Not exactly someone who’s easily amused. But his smile has grammar. His voice has jazz. And suddenly I’m writing like a giddy lass.
God, I asked for peace, a quiet lane— You sent me hope on a bus called “Maybe Insane.” Now I’m laughing and glowing and blushing bright, Like my soul just lit up a chandelier light.
Do I want him? No comment, Your Honor. But if he called me, I’d write a sonnet for the caller. Still—I’m not leaping. I’ve danced that tune. And heartbreak doesn’t make a great honeymoon.
So I breathe, I scribble, I keep the reigns— Letting feelings swirl like romantic migraines. If it’s Your will, Lord, write it loud. Don’t whisper in my crush-shaped cloud.
Until then, I’ll smile. I’ll ache with grace. I’ll thank You for this strange soul-race. Because even if he’s not my next scene, He reminded me I’m still twenty... in-between.
You’re not broken. You’re just beautifully alive again. The ache is not a failure—it’s evidence of your healing.
