If I am carved, what wood am I made from?
Some sturdy oak or soft and pliant pine?
No, this actual question demands truth.
If you made me in your blessed image,
And I am twisted, and I am this warped,
Then, father, have hard times twisted you too?
Say yes. Say anything and end the silence
That these years, these long years have given me.
Tell me something even though I know what
The answer has ever and always been.
Absent minded, you turned your knife to me,
Carving tender lines with most tender hands,
Not noticing at first the flaw in me
Until my heart made it's first bass, wet beat.
You named me the first of the wooden boys
With dark expectation and mockery.
The answer though, which you, ashamed, avoid,
For my grace, love and attention starved heart,
Is you made me in your image and failed,
But had no means to pull me back apart.
Why have I posted an unfinished poem? Good question. Many people don't see process. This is an awful poem, I have decided, but I like it so I will make it better. It may become longer. Something seems missing between stanza 3 and 4.