This is a ragamuffin poem,
Written by a muffin never sweet enough to be a cupcake,
Let alone a legit cake.
This is for the fake fire Christian,
The one missing fuel but too afraid to admit it.
This is for the sons standing in pig shit,
Far too hungover to remember how they got there.
This is for the stairs that I’ll never be able to climb
Or the stares from self-righteous eyes.
This is for when I realize that they’re not directed at me.
I’m the one directing them at others, judging my brothers,
Just a self-righteous mess judging self-righteousness.
This is for how the best of mice and men collapse,
For the way we relapse,
The way we trip into pit traps long after their disguise is gone.
This is for the pawns disobedient to the King,
Doubting the promise that they could be more.
This is for the whore who sells her body
And the pastor who sells his integrity.
This is for our foolish attempts to calculate which is worse.
For the way we rehearse the same mistakes,
Hoping for a different ending.
This is for you and this is for me,
This is for the way we downplay all our downfalls,
Only pretending to believe we’ve sinned.
This is for wind bags and hot air,
Hollow words and empty prayer.
We’ve all been there.

So this is for Scarecrows getting lost on the yellow brick road.
And for Tin-men trying to muster enough passion to pursue a new heart.
For Lions who start adventures with all the courage they have left.
This is for all the lives bereft of action, but fighting to be more than words
This is for the absurd co-existence of faith and doubt,
For the ones who can’t stand God but can’t live without.
The ones with no clout, out on the fringes,
Coping with mechanisms or maybe syringes.
This is for the cringe worthy hinges with audible rust,
To the collectors of dust who dream of a better hobby.
For the snotty noses that only a finger will fix.
For the crucifix that watches you watch porn.
For the corn on the cob that gets stuck in your teeth.
This is for Belief half a step in front of Despair,
This is for the rare person who actually cares,
For the ones who dare hope for a happily ever after.
This is for laughter when weeping might make more sense,
For the terrified teen slowly getting off the fence.
This is for pretense dropped like hot potatoes
And for the girl who chose to fly a kite
Despite knowing it always goes badly.
But she felt affinity for its tendency to get tangled in trees,
And her past is plastered with downward spirals too.

Though this poem is for you and I,
At the end of the day this story isn’t even about us.
We are dust made into beautiful things.
This is the story of a King who turned peasants into princes,
An adoption long before sobriety even seemed to be an option.
This is about the Father of misfits,
And the hugs he gives when his kids come home.
So this poem is for the honour of the savior,
The creator, the artist who makes melodies from my mess.
And if music be the fruit of love: play on
These words are crayon scribbles duct taped to the father’s fridge.
This is for the bridge builder and destroyer of walls.
This is for his patience as I crawl,
And his ability to see that someday I’ll climb mountains.
This is for the heart that hides between the “before” and “after” pictures,
And this same spirit shows love when the two photos seem too similar.
This is for the way he gives us time,
The way he reminds us of the journey,
How growth is a process.
This is for the princess who kissed the frog,
Fully knowing how slow the transformation to prince can go.
Especially when the croaker is convinced he’s already royalty.
This is for the Storyteller dealing with conceited characters,
The director of no-name actors acting like Brad Pitt.
This is for the dancer in the chaos, never losing his feet.
For the one who repeats truth to overcome our amnesia:
“You are loved, You are loved, You are loved.”
That phrase never rings empty when it slips off his lips,
Whether with words or just with a kiss,
So this is for the master linguist who speaks our Mother Tongue,
For the one who communicates straight to our souls,
Saying exactly what we need to hear exactly how we need to hear it.
This is for the complete lack of correlation between our piety and his love.
When our choice of sin is all of the above,
His affections never lessen.
This is for the absolute disconnect between what we bring to the table and our invitation to that table,
For the “Welcome Home” with no questions asked,
Or rather no answers put to shame.
This is for the blame game still left in its box,
For stern talks replaced by “I’m so glad you’re back!”
For the one who cracks my masks with the smell of soul food.
And this is how I show my gratitude.
An offering of sparkles glued to a page,
Empty words with no action to match them,
So this is for the parent who collects our arts and crafts,
And sees a masterpiece in the squiggles.
This is for the giggles as we cuddle, cradled in our mother’s arms.
This is for our home; safe from harm,
Not an empty promise for the future, but a reality in the present.
This is for the present, the gift of intimacy with he who spoke the galaxy into existence.
This is for his persistence in revealing his affection,
Pushing past rejection and cold shoulders,
Rolling away boulders with his resurrection power.
Let us not cower with fear, for he calls us to draw near.
He longs to draw here, sketching self-portraits on our hearts,
So this is for the moment when his masterpiece starts.