Dedicated to My Maker

You made me.

The reader knows this, and yet…

He likes to feel smart

By picking me apart,

Line by line.

My stanzas are sore.

Grateful. I think I’m supposed to be.

They put me back together,

But never the same way.

I’ve been reshaped with an intended meaning.

Yet, still I, the poetic Humpty Dumpty,  am meaningless.

Yes, they pay attention to your penmanship.

Guessing, theorizing, objectifying

You…me.  

Some conclude I’m inferior because I am free,

And not contained in an ottava rima, a sestina,

A villanelle…Those creations are all swell,

But they’re not me and I’m not them,

And that’s what makes us interesting, I think.

For the imagery each of us breed is packed with pulchritude.

Blue skies or rainy rainbows, reigning diverse kingdoms.

Portraits of freedom look like Death, but feel like Life.

The runner at the starting line.

The Mother at the finish, praising a dirge.

See?  Our guts are composed of gracious words,

Broken down into nutrients, fuel for the body.

Still, the reader insults me, dismisses me,

Claiming that I’m too complex, or too trite,

Or too nothing. Sometimes I’m angered,

But that’s about all.

I have faith in You…

My Creator, my Maker;

You’ve given me life,

And that’s enough reason

For Me to just Be.