You are complex.
A creature of dark and light.
of ballet and boxing.
A hard-headed mystic
more ribald and quirky,
more holy and seeking
A schizophrenic soul,
always at war
in your search for peace,
a puzzle piece that fits nowhere,
too pretty to throw away,
too strange to keep.
Less creative than expressive.
unable to get it right,
you write. You paint. You pray in the early morning.
You dance to Bowie and Jagger in the moonlight.
A lover of baths and bourbon and balance,
of cats and children and raunchy old time blues,
an intrepid discoverer of paths
who is bad at following.
Innocent. Too often blind. Too seeing to be safe.
Far more flawed than anyone deserves.
Full of grace,
because in your strange little life
so much has been shown you.
About this poem
None of us is simple, even when we try.