Poetry

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© Bob Barra, 9-27-07

Take this; it’s good;
Throw this; it’s bad;
I’d throw it all, if I could,
Whether glad or sad;

I’m the one that You made,
Sorry for what I did with it;
What You made was highest grade,
Until I tossed it in the pit;

Just pieces of things in my head;
I’m not picking ‘em up;
If I could, I’ll wanna be dead,
Or at least I’d wanna throw up;

Just pieces of things in my head;
The Lord will pick them up;
He sees the past as if it’s dead,
And I will only go up;

God made dirt, and dirt don’t hurt
‘Til it has a personality;
Have no reason for me to blurt,
About my own humanity;

Just pieces of things in my heart,
They’re all strewn about;
He puts them all in His cart,
Let’s see what He works out;
He takes the good, with the bad;
He doesn’t waste a thing;
He takes a man, who should be sad,
And makes him want to sing;

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