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Rated: E · Poetry · Contest Entry · #2250374
"...think of yourself with sober judgment..." ~ (Romans 12:3)
"Be true to yourself"
I can still hear
that woman sing it so softly;
in a language unknown to me,
and a tongue so cloudy.

As I lay on my bed freezing;
there are words I've spoken that left people's hearts awake.
What words of mine continue to resound in them;
of hurt, I didn't realize I've inflicted,
or of joy, I hadn't noticed lifted them.

Words are sticks,
words are rocks.
The problem isn't with rocks because everyone knows they break bones.
Everyone knows who is at fault,
what to give, what to take away,
and how to heal when it hurts you the most.
The problem is with needles;
those sharp words that create wounds nobody knows;
those broken roads you didn't know were bumpy until you had to cross;
20-that sweet poison of the enemy that has kept you sick and bedridden.

And I wonder;
have I ever dug needles
into stranger whose face I've forgotten,
into a loved one?
Are there needles in me
25- -I only dream-
spoken only in nightmares,
hidden behind where I can see.

How can I say sorry,
when they won't accuse me
30-and my pride is a lie to me.

Words can be light,
words can be warm.
It's the warm touch,
the flush in your cheeks,
the reason to make the edges lips smile,
and the tickle of someone's voice laughing.
37-It can be gentle, and it can save.

How many gentle words are spoken to me in the secret place?
In my suffering, how many whispers comfort me softly?
40-The gentle beating of "It is going to be alright".
I let go and speak of the pain inside of me;
What pleasure to be in the Father who loves me dearly.

When I am joyful,
when I compliment,
whose day did I make,
and infect them with this blush?

Or what words have I sprinkled as fine salt,
landed in someone's fine cuisine;
or has it been the burn of alcohol
washing the blood away;
they accuse me of the pain,
not of its healing.

I think of the harsh summer rains
breaking through the sky.
These days saddened me
until I realize it was another blessing
for the trees, the plants, and the food given to me;
cooling my sweltering feet.
Whose look, whose Voice, made me dance the Mahanaim in this everlasting rain?

Being true to myself
is denying myself;
knowing myself
and placing the Truth as my base.
Knowing the worst parts of me
as well as the good.
To do what may go against what I am for the sake of others,
and the God I love.

Common Sense: The song to myself ends;
the ascending luminescence begins to die out,
the singer's quiet breath is now puffed tailing the end.
And the piano keys tremble,
the bells race becomes a promenade, coming to a stop.
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