"Canvases"

Just a creative take on how God excepts us, and the Biblical statement "Come as you are."

We have these canvases detailing our backgrounds.
Canvases waiting to be painted with our finger tips.
They resonate in our souls like Sistine Chapels melting from our bone marrow.
You feel them when you cry, pumping like lungs.
Pulsing like veins.
Bleeding, like people tend to.
Some artists choose to showcase theirs.
Hanging them on the rim of their sleeves, buttoned and velcroed.
Pasted like sun spots blotching our lips.
So when we speak, our past can be heard some where in the reverberation of our monotone.
And some, keep them hidden like secrets, not too proud of the mess’s we’ve created.
Etched out faces, scribbles of dates, foot notes that say “Move on, you can keep trying if you want to, but you’ll never be close to him.”
‘Explanation of phrase-see Fallen Angels’
See me, see you, see broken homes crawling out of the ditches.
We all have these canvases, cross stitched and sewn.
Blank canvases covered with mistakes.
A clean slate isn’t anywhere to be found but I know God has my back.
Like a tattered flannel that won’t lose the last stitch.
I can feel the wings in my ribs are trying to escape.
Chained in with cages built by broken tablets.
Trapped, being strung up with victorious raptures in my chest, blasting, bleeding from my heart, torn open and resurrected from the burning halos.
I have scriptures burning in my palms like these lines of destiny are something holy.
I salute to the one true soldier with hands closed.
Waiting till they conform into stairs and I can climb my way to something better than this.
Better than me, better than dying inside.
So come on, wrap the world around my neck and snap it.
Because I know I have a friend waiting for me, and his name is God.
I will wear my canvases like fashion statements.
Don’t ask me questions, just shut up, hold out your arms, and embrace the braile breaking off of my skin.
Let the memories trickle through your fingers like water.
Quench your senses.
Breath it in, let the fumes intoxicate you so you can stumble on Heaven’s clouds when you walk.
Know that he is something powerful, that no matter how dirty and torn our canvases are, God always appreciates good art.
And good hearts.
And peaceful souls.
Stretch mine out and watch it snap back like elastic.
Spastic, and hurried, trying to scurry back to where it belongs.
Except that it’s yours.
Except that you have one, because God already has.
He put them inside of us knowing that we would break colors across it’s surface like bad habits we’re trying to get rid of.
He knew we would bruise the state of which it exists.
We would torture it, make it cry, he knew it would happen.
So know, that as long as you’re trying to paint the Golden Gates, and doesn’t matter how you trace them.
Our canvases are like the dash in between the dates on your gravestone, they hold every single thing you’ve done, monumental or not.
Watch it rot, and it will still look as beautiful as ever, like the bright side of a dying rose.
When you hold your hands together, know that you are dancing, with paintbrushes and pastels melted into the bottoms of your shoes.
We all have these self-portraits hanging from our solar plexus.
That’s why your life tends to whisper it’s way out of you when you get struck there.
This is a call to awareness.
To let you know, that God accepts all canvases, big or small, clean or dirty, as long as you still have yours.
Because no matter what, it is an art form like no other.
And no body can make a better masterpiece than the children of God.