I found a carving made of wood A carving I made and Never really understood The shape was awfully made And yet at the time Emitted an aura that felt good The raw quality, The way light fell on it, At the time I could only think The carving was perfect, The way that it stood.
I found a wood carving that I hid Away from my mind So that I could bid Farewell to the misplaced notches and indents That surfaced on the carving. Why did I leave pieces here And cut off parts there? What experience did I have in carving Such an obscene piece? Of myself, the carving, I would rid But if only I could Forget what I did What I carved What I was amid But I cannot
The reason I didn't understand The decisions I made Was because I understood the decisions I made.
There are parts to this poem drafted in my mind and yet I carved them. I consider reattaching them but what effect will that have to my misshapen poem?
How do I get a carving out of a tree? The smug shape of your G+E outlines with a ******, misshaped heart etched into the evergreen. You ruined my favorite tree with five words. A sentence I knew you would inevitably say at some point of our lives together. I really wanted to doubt myself for once, and be proved wrong in the right way. But you just had to keep me incorrect.
I call the local lumberjack and ask him, "Cut down the tree as soon as possible." I think that's how you get a carving out of a tree.
We've taken you from your home. Lush in line, your twins and elders, taken. You lost connection to the Nexus, put on display with porous candied paper messengers and the consumers of blood, perched from the ceiling by invisible lineage. We have taken you. We're sorry. We lament. We trade small goods to take you, but its easy. We take the tools too. The serration, the ******, newspaper mat lobotomy. We lament. We are sorry. We lament and cut sad faces. We cut the undead that spawn from the soil and ****** your innards into the hot room. We are sorry. We too spawn from soil. You feel you've lost connection to the Nexus- with the stringy appendages of chilled gore. We've taken your insides and given you a new face. We are sorry.
I cannot eat and I cannot sleep anymore because Your Great Love has been knocking down my doors. God, I am filthy, but you make me clean You've had great plans for me before I even became a little bean. Growing up brings some bitter pains, You wash it away with your healing rain. My timid soul is thirsty and starving. Shape me Lord, into your perfect carving.
Hundreds of orders behind but never never never Never quite out of business. I cut my finger often but my carvings are cut, always must be. I owe the people wooden hearts to call their own. And I owe myself a living, living with clocks and statues and cabinets for some purpose known by God.
Their hallow heads hold fire after being carved by kids. I wonder how they do that, gouge a gourd for human fests. I bring them water every day, until they grow with might, these now seedless pumpkins that glow all through the night. They say they scare the ghosts away but none yet have I seen except the ones of the rotted skeletons that were once these.