Spoken Word, a poem

It's that silence spoken so tenderly in the room,

where the pews are full of problems.

Each seat perfectly worn from bottoms,

too selfish to stand for righteousness.

The very ones holding the black book

as evidence of their holiness, torn from many years

of studying without realizing that God exists

beyond its limited pages.

Eloquently the choir sings a tune

that breaks the walls and the painted glass windows,

sending cracks down it's spine, and splitting mine

where it hurts.

That pain where all your imperfections are smacked

in your face, and you just see how ungrateful you are.

To breathe this air 6ft above ground, seems like nothing

until a face you once loved stares wide-eyed as if you aren't there.

These hymns, the same ones my grandma used to sing

when she felt evil creep along the sides of her skin,

peeling her sins until she couldn't feel ‘em anymore,

are the same ones I sing when I feel like I don't have skin


And I dance in my bare bones, forgetting.

That I'd be too busy to bow down and remember,

where I came from. That'd I'd be too busy

to see my friends silently turn their backs,

because the devil told them to. That'd I'd be too busy

to say I love you before it's my turn to hand out flowers

for the breathless. But He reminds me who's king.

Those silent nights was created for His voice

to bring life to my soul, the same girl

that keeps running back to old sin like it’s gonna’ change.

And even then, I get a wakeup call

that puts me in position. Knees bowed, hands raised

like I'm even worthy of forgiveness. Tears of blood shed

for believing that human nature would never rape me.

Torn heart for believing love on earth

could even measure to God's.

Ears pried open, listening, for Him to speak holiness,

words that could never be said

by anyone else.