Poems and Proverbs of the Crazy

Instruments

A vessel of love, of hate,
Of all emotions.
Honesty rests inside, sitting beside lies,
It hurts with no physical provocation.
Random stabs of guilt,
And then abounds great pleasure.
Happiness can run rampant,
Or sorrow comes like falling rain.
It hides our innermost secrets.
The ones it keeps to protect those it loves,
Or the one it keeps out of shame,
Which appears in the worst of times.
What is this strange instrument that runs your emotions,
And keeps your secrets?
Your heart? Perhaps.
Your soul? Could be.
Maybe your spirit? A possibility.
But as for me,
I find these things to be all in one thing.
Me.
And you.
And every person now, then and later.
We make up such an instrument,
And as with instruments, tools, items of usefulness,
We can be disused, misused
Broken, worn out,
Missing pieces, missing purpose,
Lost, physically and mentally.
But as with instruments and tools,
There is the Craftsman who made them, and he made an instruction manual,
So that we may be whole and useful and feeling brand new.
The Craftsman, his name is God.
The manual, that's the Bible.
The instrument, that's you