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Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #1373517
This is a poem I wrote. It is spirtual. EDITED
As I ponder the question of, “Who Am I?”
I am intrigued by the mysteries I contain and hold within me.
There is only one who can reveal the answer
He is my very own Creator

I fall to my knees in desperation
Crying aloud to the heavens
For an answer to this mystery I seek
In gentle response, he answers.

“Thought of and designed by me
You were formed in the darkness of your mother’s womb
Nine months of your life were spent there
Waiting for what I have in store for you”

“You are an unfinished work of art
Through faith, experiences, and services
I developed you into the woman you are today
You are blessed, my daughter”

“I bestowed you with sapphire eyes
That enables you to absorb my creations
Your hair, your crowning glory
The shade of a golden harvest”

“You are like a blossoming flower
Rained on by many showers and storms
Sometimes, wilting away; feeling close to your death
Yet, I will shine the sun on you once more”

“You are the like the soaring eagle
Spreading your wings and taking flight
Sometimes, you will fall from the sky and hit the ground hard
I will always be there to pick you up”

“You will leave me at times
. Swimming through a maze of treacherous waters
Using your own instincts as an attempt to navigate
Moving fast, but going nowhere”

“Trapped in the vast of your troubles
I will beckon softly to you, “follow me”
The voice will be music to your ears
And you will follow”

“In a great search for me, you will swim
Toward that sweet lullaby that will put you asleep
And once there, you will dream vivid dreams
Safe at last in my arms”

“In the morning, your troubles are forgotten
As the day begins anew
I will present to you an easel
And a blank sheet of paper”

“You will stare at it absently
Waiting for instructions, for my guidance
On your own, I will leave you for some time
To try your hand at creation”

“When you grow weary of painting
I will be there to step in, and take over
Guiding your hand with my own
Over the mess of life that you’ve created”

“Who am I?” I ask again
“My masterpiece,” he says



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