You kick things
and shout words profane;
angrily hurling pain,
physically hurting us from within.
You think the world hates you,
for all you ever did was fiasco.
Nothing in your life seems right,
you're bad news in everybody's sight.
But that, there, is where you're wrong.
The world hates you—we don't.
The world judges you for your sins—we don't.
The world condemns you for your misdeeds—we don't.
For forgiveness, dear boy,
is what we're always ready to give.
You can always find refuge in our warm embrace.
We'll be there to kiss your tear-streaked face.
And when you fall, we'll help you get up with grace.
'Cause no matter how many things you break,
whatever wounds you may have made,
however vile the words we've heard,
to us, you're a piece a heaven
and in our hearts, you've always been.
Open your eyes and let them see.
We are here, and forever we will be.
Talk to us, we'll always listen.
Please, just for a moment,
let us in.
So we can pull out
that heavenly boy deep within.
******
YOU ARE READING
Spilled Ink
PoetryA piece of soul in ink, and unto the paper it spilled. A collection of thoughts that rhyme from a wandering mind.