Poem

A pen sits beside me,
A blank canvas before me
What words will I paint?

Jumbled letters often formed my life,
Unwanted punctuation marks all too often took their place.
There were times my pen ran out of ink,
Other times, the colour of the ink was so foreign to me,
that I questioned the point of writing if to my feeble eyes,
the ink seemed so unimaginably unreadable

And a question appeared to me: do we write for the purpose of being read?

Do musicians play their instruments to be heard? Do painters paint their pictures to be seen?

Listen to the birds in the morning, they sing their tweets regardless of if it wants to be heard or not. And I will write HIS Words, regardless of if it wants to be read or not.

Because HE wrote in red over the doorposts of my heart, I will bring an offering of words before HIS Tent.

Regardless the pen I find in my hands, as HE took my jumbled letters forming them into a poem, I will take whatever tool I have and paint HIS Words on canvas.

The beauty lies not in what is read. The beauty lies in knitting words together out of broken letters.

Just as HE faced every kind of pen, simply to write “I love you,” we must realise that if we do not pick up our pens and write, then fear, pride and depression will write for us.

Will we paint words for HIM? Will HIS Words become our Words? Will HIS Song become our Song? Will HIS Desire become our Desire?

Are we willing to simply write “I love YOU, too”
Even if it comes from broken letters and foreign pens