The hearts of people are so delicate
as a beautiful blooming rose
each petal so complex
only its maker can know it.
Each heart so different
motivated by different motives.
controlled by different circumstances and thoughts.
Influenced by different sufferings.
Who can know the heart of someone as ugly as me?
One tender thought
and countless words of love and compassion come off my lips
as I sleep in a doorway
or on the sidewalk.
Do not misjudge this rose on the sidewalk.
It is my heart.
What are you doing
Exactly what they want you to do
Who are they, you might ask
They are the ones who have been
bestowed the task of misdirecting
Society as a whole
you can join them if you will
agree to sell your soul
For the simple price
A compromise of all you believe
There are some who don't even
have to think twice
They just conveniently forget
what they have seen
and where they have been
Ain't it a shame.
Is it a sin?
Who do you blame?
The creator of men?
Or should you blame yourself
after all, you are the one
Who put your morals on the shelf
A small price to pay
Who cares if you ruin
everyone else's day
you just do what you do
because someone told you to.
Is there really a Savior
from her wheelchair she spoke
Her doll held so tightly
and in her eyes hope
Will I be like other kids
and walk and run and race
a look of faith and innocence
on her little face
How could the doctor tell her
"She had a fatal bug"
With her arms wrapped around his neck
giving him a hug
That night the little girl
slipped away
and found her Savior
that same day
I dream of worlds on fire with peace,
where at long last, warfare may cease.
I dream of love becoming the very air . . .
Each soul filled with a heart full of care.
I dream of hope filling the sky with light,
and love fountains that rise and take flight.
I dream of times when all might see
the world as the paradise it could be.
I dream of this world cleansed of hate,
come to wisdom before it is too late.
If just one will dream along with me today,
we can start the universe in a brand new way.
Once there she cut for me,
A length of winding rope
Smooth, satiny, meant for delicates
Like corded necks or wrists perhaps
With coiled veins misshapen, twisting
A harmony line of shadows in settling flesh
That once was unconsidered.
And I took this string of sorrow,
And I made it my own
Polished its nearly invisible handle
With the damning blade
Of my name and history
Handed her the handle of this unseen knife
And said, "Here, you may cut now."