I’m gonna do something a bit different with my poem this time and give y’all a peek at my writing process.
Usually, the poems I post are the second write. I typically write my poem drafts on paper first, and then type a rewrite. The rewrite is nothing like the original like… at all… besides a line or two. This is because the hand written version is illegible and the thoughts themselves simply chaotic. Translating the entirety into legible text is an arduous business, so rewriting is much better…
This is one of the few times I wrote a draft on my computer, so I have the ability to share both the draft and final poem.
This particular poem was inspired by another writer’s poem in the workshop I participate in. The original response was more or less just straight responses to her questions and thoughts. I actually write poetic responses pretty often as a way of collecting my own thoughts and feelings. I don’t always share them though, due to the fact they are sometimes too contextual to understand without the original.
The two poems are not the same length, so won’t result in a line by line comparison. I’d suggest just reading one first and then the other. lol
Original (Untitled Response)
How can I say
I’m somebody’s friend
If I can’t see the truth and stay?
The layers and layers of dirtiness, brokenness…
Flesh and bones,
Weary and wasting away.
What kind of friend am I,
To walk away?
When you and I,
Are just the same.
Dust given breath
To walk for, in the grand scheme of things,
But a moment… or a day.
And we ask are we worth something then?
Amongst millions of other grains of sand?
Tangled up in these weeds,
Surrounded by shards of glass
And rotting leaves.
Telling ourselves we have value…
Telling ourselves we can be something great…
Beautiful…
Alive…
But knowing…
We’re just a speck
Lost.
Aren’t we?
But so what if you and I are just two tiny sparks?
Flakes of gold in a sea of dark.
Just because in our own eyes…
We seem so small and worthless…
While trying and trying to make ourselves worth something,
But we can’t make ourselves worth any more
Because we were valued priceless from the start.
And failing and failing,
Over and over,
To succeed.
Can never change that,
Nor steal the soul within your heart.
So maybe… maybe yes…
Maybe success is a lie.
Because success is no measure of value.
Only of ability.
And our ability only measures what we are capable of doing now,
Not capable of being.
And we’re only capable of being…
Ourselves…
Broken
But beautiful,
Like sea glass on the shore…
Yes, you are broken.
I believe you…
But being broken
Won’t stop me from picking someone up,
And holding them strong and high,
Because,
Nothings wrong with being broken.
And I don’t care if a journey is tough…
No one has a right to say that they’re your friend…
If they won’t take it knowingly to the dangerous end.
Cause life is rough.
It comes with falls and breaking…
And we don’t have a choice to be given life…
But we can choose to be alive and live it.
You’re not a place holder
You’re not some pieces slapped together,
A filler in the pages of some grand fantasy.
Because though you and I… we may be grains of dust…
But in the eyes of the One who gave us breath,
Its as if you or I are all that exists.
He doesn’t ask that you or I figure things out…
He doesn’t ask that we sort through confusion,
Or never ever fall…
He only asks that you let Him give you those answers,
Let Him lead you down those paths you can’t begin,
And pick you up with that endless grace,
That urges you to trust in Him,
Despite those betrayals,
Despite that sin.
Because He offers His own faithfulness, His own life,
To cover all of yours.
So you no longer have to try to be something you’re not…
Only the one He’s made you to be.
Loved
Purified
Priceless
Amongst so many other things,
That I pray,
Someday,
You will find
So that you will find,
Beautiful life in the brokenness, of a dirty, shattered land…
Because you can’t pretend to be a beautiful garden,
Unless that garden has truly found,
A place where it can grow and thrive.
And gardens only grow
In places where the earth is rich…
Be it with nutrients from fertilizer or what others may call shame…
But it’s not.
It’s foundations,
From which a good Gardener,
Can sift and make
Gardens to bloom every brighter.
Rewrite (Soil of Shame)
You claim to be a false garden,
Growing from,
Last night’s garbage,
Broken items,
And burnt remains…
The stench the dog left behind,
Old bones,
And rotting leaves,
All weary and wasting away…
~~~~
Layers and layers of soil made of shame.
~~~~
You said this greenery,
These pale buds,
Only mask what is beneath…
It’s all a guise,
That makes such beauty,
Such life,
A lie,
To make yourself worthwhile…
But still you don’t feel it.
~~~~
Because the earth beneath is dry.
~~~~
You feel as though,
This moment in time,
Of fraudulent growth,
Is a waste of our attentions.
You can’t understand
Why we would stay
Beside you,
And believe we wouldn’t,
If we saw the mess you’re made of.
~~~~
Soon to wither, choke, and die.
~~~~
You’ll never have the chance to bloom,
You’re sure…
You’ll never have that chance of wondrous life,
Because your stems are always clipped
Left to waste.
Each moment of existence,
Thrown away.
Every opportunity to spread,
A mistake.
~~~~
Because soon these branches will break.
~~~~
Nothing ever could have been right,
In this plot of earth,
Where your seeds were planted,
And had no choice but to grow.
You never wanted this life.
You know you’ll never be enough,
Never last…
You see yourself as a space holder,
For another more healthy, more beautiful plant.
~~~~
You know you’re so easily replaced.
~~~~
Because every time you thought you’d figured it out,
Thought you’d got this thing called life done right,
Thought you’d grown up enough,
Thought your colors bright enough,
To cover all this muck…
You’re left behind.
Another plant is plot.
You’ve been torn up,
And tossed to the side…
~~~~
Rooting in and covering the shameful mud beneath.
~~~~
And I don’t know you.
I’ve only passed your garden once or twice.
I don’t know who thought,
They had the right to trample your stems,
Drag you out–
Snapping your roots.
Tossing you aside,
To grow along this broken path
Where you find,
~~~~
Life’s all but forgotten.
~~~~
And I don’t know,
How anyone claimed to be your companion,
Only to leave you parched in famine.
I don’t know who told you,
Your greenery,
Was meant to hide the earth below,
To hide a past you had little choice in,
And is the plot on which
You have only this choice:
~~~~
Grow or die.
~~~~
I don’t know who told you
That you were meant to be something else,
A rose without thorns,
Meant to grow in violet,
And not your vibrant red.
That if you couldn’t,
You’d failed.
That if you didn’t,
It would shape your worth,
~~~~
When it has not.
~~~~
Such success is a lie.
Value does not walk in hand with ability,
Which only measures,
What you were meant to do.
Meant to be.
And you can only be
Yourself.
Always valuable.
Always of worth.
~~~~
No matter the soil, no matter the form.
~~~~
So what if you are broken?
Is not every garden in a constant battle,
Of weeds, breaks, and bites?
So what if the soil that you grow from,
Is not the world’s “perfect” fertilizer,
And rather the work of what
They wrongfully named shame?
You cannot fake a garden,
The budding of life.
~~~~
Gardens only grow where the earth is rich.
~~~~
Your leaves
Were not to mask a dirty past,
But to shine because of it.
And your flowers,
When chanced to grow
If given into the hands of the Gardener,
May pop alive like wildflowers,
Simply thriving,
Because they can.
~~~~
When He is trusted with every part.
~~~~
He won’t ask you,
To change the status of your soil,
He won’t make you sort the trash of confusion,
Or tell you to root your own weeds,
And cure your own spots and disease.
He takes all that in His hands,
Whispering the truth,
Pouring grace,
And cleaning the dust from your leaves with love.
~~~~
Filling you with the fullness of vibrant life,
~~~~
From the foundations
Of the life already lived.
He will sift it.
He will turn it from broken dirt,
To something from which,
Your petals will finally have the chance to bloom.
Brighter and brighter,
As years go by.
Each cycle,
~~~~
A chance to draw eyes
~~~~
To His work,
In one who is not worthless,
Who is not labeled failure,
Who was always meant to live.
And even in such simple form,
Can do what design intended,
Despite soil made of shame,
A garden grows,
All the same.
I hope you enjoyed this poetic process and the poems themselves!
~Brianna Harpel
Spread the Spark 