this psalmist says...

I want to abide
with words.

Positively revel
in their inadequacy,
cortex searching for some
marriage of syllables that will do the way that I feel
justice.

There is an inner longing to see my soul pulled out,
interpreted,
studied,
scrutinized by some cosmic mapmaker
some compassionate surgeon,
lovingly
knitting together the torn pieces of my heart
with this life's splinters of insecurity
filling this vessel full of love
its tiny membranes ready to burst...

his smile beaming (like the sun he created)
he looks over my Raggedy Ann body,
jagged scars and perfectly hidden stitches a masterpiece at his hands
and he says,
"It is good."

I channel David,
vein in my ancient bloodline,
brother of the pen,
how you must have felt these urges
to be known
and examined
and understood too.
For they are evident in your raw, jagged verses,
an incessant howling at the moon
like the rabid wolf that you were
when you thought God had turned away.

Millennia later,
the essence of our primal need to be stitched up
has not become faint in the bluescreen glow of our text message world.
I Sharpie these lines of love
onto my modern day papyrus,
permanence etched on the blank page
with the same frenetic pace that my life unfolds inside my head.

A modern-day woman
desperately pens these psalms
in the Year of the Dog,
with the aid of two beers,
yesteryears tears bubbling up to the surface of this soul's geyser,
erupting into a cry to my God,
mirroring Psalm 143:6,
knowing full well the answer is worth the wait.