An Awful Waste

If you lock a poet
in a box
He'll write of isolation.
If you take away his
favorite pen,
The verse will be frustration.
Take his love?
He'll write of pain.
Give her back?
A much sweeter refrain.
You might put him high up
on a ledge,
But then we'd hear of
heights and fright.
Or maybe lock him out
in the dark,
Only to have him speak of
starlight at night.
Can you halt a poet's words?
I rack my brain to think.
We might sometimes receive a pause
When he runs out of ink.
So, let us not always
a poet shun
Because of differing taste
For after all his rhymes, his sonnets and limericks,
A poet is
An awful thing to waste.

See Through Me, Please

I need someone
to hold my hand
and wipe away my tears,
who can hold me close
when I am weak
and chase away my fears.
I feel lost and alone
like there's no where i can turn,
no light to go to
no fire to grant me warmth
as it burns.
I'm scared, and... afraid,
of being sad and alone.
With no one's arms near
to wrap me up
and make me feel at home.
It's the frightful, lonely fear,
of which it's so hard to speak.
Because it's so hard
I don't, and in so not doing
cannot find my release.
This is my cry for help.
A silent, tearful plea:
see through my fear, my chains,
my darkness, and doubt,
and set me free.

Little Bird

The feeble bird
With broken wing
Lies chained
In dark and gloom
Within the dark
It's hard to see
The hope
outside the room
Dear little bird,
There's more to you
Than what your
Captor says
A Father, A Savior
Both fight for you
Through bright and
Powerful ways.
What satan says
Means even less
Than what the
World thinks.
Their judging eyes
Grow wide with fright
As their love
Bursts the welded links.
Sweet little bird
Don't doubt or fear you're
Lonely in your your plight.
He'll break your chain.
He'll heal your wing.
And with you
He'll take flight.