Secret Poems

I swore never to publish these.

For my Master of Fine Arts degree, I had to take one mandatory poetry course, and I hated it.

Most of the twentieth-century American poetry we read for class didn’t make any sense to me.

Why in the world did “The Red Wheelbarrow” by William Carlos Williams end up in an anthology??

WHAT depends upon a red wheelbarrow?

Why are there chickens?

What are we talking about?!

These were my unfiltered thoughts during those eight weeks of poetry class, during which I gritted my teeth and swore I would never—NEVER—write poetry again.

But that was before I joined The Way Back to Ourselves.

After attending Kimberly Phinney’s Poetry University class in January, I thought, “If this lovely teacher had been my professor, I might actually have enjoyed poetry.”

Kimberly’s class revived my desire to revisit the mystic and mystifying art of poetry, but it wasn’t until the Cultivate 2026: Rooted retreat in Greenville, South Carolina, last month that I finally gave myself permission to write in verse again.

Thanks to a phenomenal line-up of keynote speakers and the absolutely ~fire~ poetry open-mic hour we had on Sunday night, my inner poet was re-awakened.

Praise the Lord, I am a resurrected poet.

---

In the spirit of vulnerability, I confess that learning to write poetry feels like learning a new language, one that my tongue still stumbles over.

But as I flipped through some old notebooks this week, I found a handful of poems that had spilled out of me over the past year despite my best efforts to suppress my inner poet—because some things simply cannot be expressed in prose.

I want to share these poems with you, my friend, not because they are artistically profound, but because they reflect the heart of Daughter of the King: identity and belovedness.

If nothing else, may these secret poems encourage you to revive your inner poet, too.

Secret Poems

(for the weary creative)

I.
Am I still a writer

	if my pen cracks

	and all

		the words

			run 
				out?



(for the situationship)

II.
I love you 
for what you were to me
during that season 
when I was lonely and bored

a flirtation, a promise,
a kiss
always hungered,
never stolen

your hands on my body
how many times
I imagined them

Lust—friendship—fear
Who knew they could coexist
in such disharmony?

Love you?
No.
I didn't love you;

I craved you
like a poison—
that's the difference.



(for the broken and contrite heart)

III.
I wept in the silence
of my unanswered prayers

screaming, “God, can you hear me?
Are you even there?”

I pounded my fists on heaven's door
crying, “God, I can't take this anymore.”

Above my screams,
a whisper broke through.

The LORD said, “My child,
of course I hear you.”



(for the father wound)

IV.
I am a daughter 
	before anything else.

My worth does not stem
	from the work that I do
but from the knowledge that I 
	am beloved by you.

You sing songs of delight
	over my broken heart.
You love me completely,
	not in halves or in part.

Nothing can change who I am
	to you.
You love me forever,
	through and through.

~ a.l.w.

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