Sticks and Stones, and Names Can Hurt Us Too
It is a labor of love Like poems hid away,
(and labor to love) With clumsy words
The broken child And awkward rhyme
Conceived in love, Yet these rough works
And borne in hope, Can speak to me
But, struggling…. If I allow them to
My labor’s pain I’m looking past
Is that I treat Cadence and rhythm
But cannot heal And disguises children wear
The bones and nerves Like looking past
And misformed parts Van Gogh’ strokes
That cannot be remade To see the lonely night
But still I see I see messages in poems
Their human souls And songs in children’s hearts
Trapped here in twisted form About our life, and love