Trace differently

The words have changed, They trace differently, They dip and cave differently, But something has not changed: The uncertainty of what will be written, The hope that it exhumes truth, Disappearing from the world of superficiality, From the world of cold, curled italics, and tense foreheads-- A world without peace. I remember when a poem became. Like that little caterpillar, That crawls in contentment, Yet awaits its moment to come alive, and Through the forming and explaining, and erasing, And stretching for more than its cacoon, More than its vocabulary, more than itself; That it, Much unlike the empty hugs, the gilded smiles, the electronic pokes, Is true; Like that pond down by the weeds, Where the sunlight is gently woven, Where grace embraces, And truth penetrates to the most brittle of hearts, Like those weeds high above that pond. Like that dove, that soars, On the most bravest of heights, The depths which mere men boast— The true dove writes. My dad showed me, in a wealthy, broken home that poetry was mine. That my poems could soar far from that old home, With my old self, Into arms that truly hold, And eyes that truly see, speech empty of deceit. He listed I like____ For a few lines, and it was called a poem, by him. Then came the fluttering of formal language, To seem sohphisticated, like those who wrote, Not to find truth, but to show an ideal, Killing the existence of purity, Like an airbrushed face; And it was called a poem, By them-- the ones with the airbrushed faces. Now, the words come so easy. yet most of the time, They are hard to keep—knowing the world, the person with the high vocabulary and Italian books would not agree. I guess that is the beauty of truth, The beauty of writing, and calling it a poem, The beauty of the “mistakes”, and how None of it is actually a mistake, But a whisper from His spirit, A peck of truth. The beauty of emptying a soul, which may seem mundane, Like the dirt of which He formed it. And, then arrives that soaring beauty, the beauty of writing; simply, because He moves you to. When you write something that matters; instead of giving what would please. So, this is why I write. I write, or tap, or speak with the hope— That truth will be spoken, The same truth that spoke me into being, There in the crevices, Meaning will be found. That I would see the small lily, hidden by the crumbs of the dirt, That I would appreciate the way the sunlight touches the most coldest of skins and hearts, Or the touch of an infant that seems to lighten the wounds, Or the taste of hope that sparks from His words, That are written on my heart, That I could see these things through my vocabulary, Like a poet.