Monsters

Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
But tears keep leaking from my eyes
Just like the little child who hides
Those nightmares that I feared before
Always lurked behind a door
But now I’m grown enough to see
The monsters lie inside of me

There’s no escape, no way to run
Just let the monsters have their fun
Soon they’ll leave, the sun will shine
And then pretend that all is fine
But soon enough, back they’ll be
Never even warning me
So here I lie, curled in a ball
And hope they fade back in the wall

But free from them I’ll never be
For they are inside of me
Within the creases of my brain
The monsters come, and with them pain
I wish that I could end this curse
But wishing only makes it worse
So don’t be mad or sad for me
Help fight the monsters I can’t see

A Father’s Presence

From her cold numb hands
the flowers fall.
He only used her,
cared naught at all.
Standing in white,
she’s trying to fight,
the tears.
All words he said,
now fall dead,
on her ears.
She sinks to her knees,
and softly a breeze,
rustles her hair.
As rain starts to fall,
she sends up a call,
to her father.
Then through the rain,
and her fog of pain,
He comes.
Lifting her up,
wrapped in his love,
God holds his child,
and lets her cry.

Fingertips

As she danced, with flowers in her hair,
bare feet twirling across the grass,
a song on her lips,
a tune in her throat,
she sings to the rising sun.
Arms open wide
the sun kisses her cheeks and accepts her warm salutation.
So she lies in the grass,
the blades tickling her face as her eyes rove the sky.
The clouds are her dreams and they change as she grows,
ever they are at her fingertips…yet just out of reach.

Broken

The great beast snorts
A mighty breath.
The oppressor sports
A determined stance.
Poetry in motion, intoxicating potion
Of hair and hooves and eyes.
The black on cerulean, a sight to be seen
As the stallion rears toward the sky.
The man approaches
The horse retreats
As danger encroaches
The battle will cease.
With fire and wind, the long whip descends
The flesh streaked with blood, a torrent, a flood
Runs down the poor beast’s flank
The fall to its knees
A smile on his lips
A horrible plea
His hands on his hips
A bridle, a saddle, the reins his command
A spirit none own dies under his hand.