I thought this was going to be a better idea than it turned out to be... I think I fell in love with my own voice..er...pen...whatever. I wish I knew more about "lyrical merit" as it relates to writing, i.e., how much is too much or too little? I'm usually left to my own instincts, which are sometimes closer than others.
Joanna
There is a good word,
that the world will melt you.
I feel sorry to write you, Joanna,
you know my poison words have a way of
making your tender shoulders sag,
and how I hate to watch you sad.
Here is a picture of my pit,
my quagmire;
it's self-pity, Joanna,
and I built it for myself, out of the dust
I came from, and fear and
weakness, weakness,
and it binds my hands, and I suffocate.
But to whom shall I turn?
I am meek, Joanna, and blunted
by the whips of my shepherds, and dragged
along by the collar until my knees buckle
and then
I am left for dead.
Where lies your hope?
The gladiators are gone, Joanna.
Marry a hard man and
he'll use up your pretty skin like
a garbage bag, a promised
disposable ransom for him to cash out.
It's a blessing to be flawed, lame
and blind and translucent,
There is promise for rebuilding, Joanna,
a God of bridging chasms.
There is a good word I could hold you,
if you're out there listening.
12:22:38 AM 
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