Glory: A Poem

I would just like to talk a little bit about the quote next to my blog title. You know, the one that says: "The job of the poet...Is to create and to capture... And to spirit and to script... The pulse of life." This is from a poem written by Mattie J.T. Stepanek, a boy who died at age thirteen from dysautonomic mitochondrial myopathy. He spent most of his time in the hospital writing beautiful "heart songs". I received one of his books when I turned 9 and I think that is what first really inspired me to write poetry. So, now that we've covered that, it's time to see this posting's poem. I'm warning you, it's a little different from the "dark and dangerous" stuff I posted last, but in a good way. Enjoy!

Glory

The thing about love

is that it's a mess:

Tangled, torn,

a mixed-up, misshapen

version of life.

It's hundreds of tears

lost on one

who paused to wink

at you in the hall,

then never answered

your heartfelt messages.

Love is thinking for hours in bed,

as dawn's fingers gently

brush the horizon.

It is our end.

And our beginning.

Love is like

dark chocolate melting

in the center of our heart.

A miniscule piece,

a small, unimportant

smile.

A deep voice asking your name

or your number

or if you like movies.

Delicious.

It is going to sleep

with the cool light of stars

streaming through your window,

content.

Yes, love is a mess.

A mess that,

although tangled

torn

mixed-up

misshapen

crumbling

and cruel,

is somehow right.

Peace, love, and happiness

-Becca