revolupo - Poetry and Revolution

3 #RELIGION-16-Prayer

May 16, 2020 David Lee Morgan (davidword) Season 3 Episode 16
revolupo - Poetry and Revolution
3 #RELIGION-16-Prayer
Chapters
revolupo - Poetry and Revolution
3 #RELIGION-16-Prayer
May 16, 2020 Season 3 Episode 16
David Lee Morgan (davidword)

PRAYER

and the holy dove turns into a bald eagle, into a warplane, into a screech owl, is the terror, is the killing, is the dying, is the prey, is the predator, is the sin, is the tiny patch of longing for the sweetness of love, of giving, of caring for someone, something, anything other than the me that i hold onto, that i care about more than any living thing, is the dead weight of me, is the desire to be, the desire to be worth, and i think of kirsty, of carolyn, of caitlin, of my sisters, of my little brother that i betrayed, ran away from, abandoned, couldn’t love, couldn’t love enough, is the baby drowning on the beach, always coming back to the babies, the easy tug at the heartstring, is the music of a world that is more than me, that goes on after me, is the hooded wish to, wish, to wish to, want to, story story story take me, make me, me me me me me…

there are those i know who love in a way that escapes the me me me, i, who have all this magic, all these gifts that i use, trying to do good, but not with good intent, only with the claws of a hungry hunger, wanting to be loved, to be held, to be sex in a bottle, fermented mischief, wickedness baptised in the holy font of a typeface, two-face, caritas, sidewalk flower growing up out of a crack in the ego solo, riding a broomstick, clean sweeping with a hammer and popsicle, floating on a sea of the me me me me me me… 

there are those i know who love because they love, not because they want to be loved, not just love hungry, but because they see soul, they cherish, hold close, closer than life, closer than death, kind all over, kind deep down inside, and brave – without bravery love is nothing – and i can sing their praise, i can see their wings, i see-dream their dream, but no not never holy me, never feel their heat, never bleed their bleed, never give the way they give, i am sick and twisted, but i can see the spring bloom booming around the me me me, moses looking down at the promised land, but never setting foot, because my feet are stones holding me down, down deep, and i can never sing the pure sweet song of the dispossessed, glue sniffing demons cackle with demented sarcasm mocking at the me me me me me… 

on a good night, i can catch the easy cry of a child in a code on a keyboard, but no never crack the sidewalk chalk-mark ghost of the me me me, i can never tell the good story, not from deep inside, but i can see it in you, i can almost touch it, maybe even bring it to life, not because it is there in me, so… not coming from the core, so… hollow and empty in a way, but on the page maybe, where the hard body does not live, but only suggests, gives an impression, maybe there the ghost skeleton is enough for you to read into it the honest love that i am missing but can almost catch, almost write down, and in the almost, maybe you can read a soul, not because it is there, but with enough of the almost, maybe i can lay it down on a page for you to pick up and breath into it. 

this is my prayer 

that my life so smothered i ego can find meaning 

not rest, but purpose, usefulness 

because you can see in me what isn’t there but almost is 

please find these words and glue them together with the courage i wish for you 

because i want it to be me. 

Show Notes

PRAYER

and the holy dove turns into a bald eagle, into a warplane, into a screech owl, is the terror, is the killing, is the dying, is the prey, is the predator, is the sin, is the tiny patch of longing for the sweetness of love, of giving, of caring for someone, something, anything other than the me that i hold onto, that i care about more than any living thing, is the dead weight of me, is the desire to be, the desire to be worth, and i think of kirsty, of carolyn, of caitlin, of my sisters, of my little brother that i betrayed, ran away from, abandoned, couldn’t love, couldn’t love enough, is the baby drowning on the beach, always coming back to the babies, the easy tug at the heartstring, is the music of a world that is more than me, that goes on after me, is the hooded wish to, wish, to wish to, want to, story story story take me, make me, me me me me me…

there are those i know who love in a way that escapes the me me me, i, who have all this magic, all these gifts that i use, trying to do good, but not with good intent, only with the claws of a hungry hunger, wanting to be loved, to be held, to be sex in a bottle, fermented mischief, wickedness baptised in the holy font of a typeface, two-face, caritas, sidewalk flower growing up out of a crack in the ego solo, riding a broomstick, clean sweeping with a hammer and popsicle, floating on a sea of the me me me me me me… 

there are those i know who love because they love, not because they want to be loved, not just love hungry, but because they see soul, they cherish, hold close, closer than life, closer than death, kind all over, kind deep down inside, and brave – without bravery love is nothing – and i can sing their praise, i can see their wings, i see-dream their dream, but no not never holy me, never feel their heat, never bleed their bleed, never give the way they give, i am sick and twisted, but i can see the spring bloom booming around the me me me, moses looking down at the promised land, but never setting foot, because my feet are stones holding me down, down deep, and i can never sing the pure sweet song of the dispossessed, glue sniffing demons cackle with demented sarcasm mocking at the me me me me me… 

on a good night, i can catch the easy cry of a child in a code on a keyboard, but no never crack the sidewalk chalk-mark ghost of the me me me, i can never tell the good story, not from deep inside, but i can see it in you, i can almost touch it, maybe even bring it to life, not because it is there in me, so… not coming from the core, so… hollow and empty in a way, but on the page maybe, where the hard body does not live, but only suggests, gives an impression, maybe there the ghost skeleton is enough for you to read into it the honest love that i am missing but can almost catch, almost write down, and in the almost, maybe you can read a soul, not because it is there, but with enough of the almost, maybe i can lay it down on a page for you to pick up and breath into it. 

this is my prayer 

that my life so smothered i ego can find meaning 

not rest, but purpose, usefulness 

because you can see in me what isn’t there but almost is 

please find these words and glue them together with the courage i wish for you 

because i want it to be me.