White Doves Tattooed Onto My Cheeks

I'm waiting out the storm

lost

thinking

it has to all work out in the end.

Little girl,

behind

and

below

everyone else

knows deep in her heart that in the end it will all work out.

Please

Speak...

Learn...

Live

in an orderly fashion.

Are these wasted words

lifting

to the sunset in my mind

focusing on

that ending "Will it all work out?"
My hands are empty

against

the realization

that I know nothing.

Mr. Bush says:

"How can you lead without the lord!"

But/

/However

who's lord do you follow.

My country,

the place of my birth

embraces all faiths

even myself in my faithlessness

yet

my leader

leads

with his own lord.

"Where is the happy ending?"

Yours.

Mine.

I want to hold on to a time

when my placement in life

didn't burn in my mind

like wasted words

that my fingers are twining

softly onto my page.

Mr. Bush doesn't see me

and I don't see his lord.

Yet

the beginning and the end

already have been written.

I want to call up Jesus

and say "hey home slice"

but what a waste that would be.

Someday

I want to say

I see that happy ending

that I'm dreaming of.

The ending

that will write itself

and leave me free to love; and

tattoo white doves onto my cheeks

and lay lightly in my bedroom

listening to the calm

after the storm.