to speak of words, writing, brokenness

 Girl with ache deep inside searches for words to
pour over her,
an ointment soothing wounds,
mending scars.
And her pain is my song,
the one I sang for years when cuts ran up and down arms
and tears were the only regular nourishment I had,
when heart was frozen, icy pond in bleakest winter cold
and voices that tried to help made head pound.
Played on damaged heart strings, a melody of broken sounds,
my song
and I hear the music again,
pouring forth from her desperate soul,
longing to give her Peace words,
but I, like Moses, am of ineloquent speech,
my words burst out a jumbled mess,
never saying what I meant to say.
I turn to only tool I know,
pen and paper,
and I write the story I know best,
my own,
and I end it with the only Hope there is,
the only real happy ending,
which has made me this mosaic that I am.
And she reads words my mouth cannot speak,
her teary-eyed stare linking us, two broken lives joined
by words of common heartache and redemption.
I do not know why I write,
why He has made my heart speak in ink,
I only know that I must,
and so,
I do.


  1. All He asks is for you to bear faithful witness to his goodness to you. It doesn't even have to rhyme or be punctuated correctly (for which, in my case, I am ever-so-grateful)

    He takes our words and uses them as He pleases. How cool is that?

  2. There is so much power in the written word Amy - words that come from a true and honest heart. You have done so well.

  3. beautiful, you (and the Jesus in you) amazes me all the time.