Granddaughter of a Pastor

Granddaughter of a pastor,
Just a man trying to understand this disaster,
When I was little
He tried to teach me how to pray
But my rhyming always got in the way.
Because all along when he was
Participating in this sacred act
I was writing poetry.
Just poetry.
But now my tongue doesn’t form
Rhyme
Only broken stanzas and
Rambling words pressed together on a page
And so much has changed
Since darling granddaughter prayed on the floor
Sunrises and sunsets and years put weight on my back
And the book my parents handed me
When I was little and words meant so much
The pages were so thin then
And so plentiful and
Back then I still believed in words
And songs
And stain glass windows
And my grandfather
Because it was so
E A S Y
And I just wanted to make people smile.
But now when I cry
Those tissue paper pages dissolve in my hands
Leaving me with
Nothing
But the things I can hold in my palm.
Real things.
And part of me wants to go back
To a time when I rhymed
To Jesus.
Yes I said his name.
Sitting on the kitchen floor
Pretending to understand
But now I know
That my grandfather didn’t teach me about god
He taught me how to Lie

To Myself.