POIĒMA: His Workmanship with a Pulse

A Poem based on Ephesians 2:10 on the Hands that Wrote Us | By Taylor O’Lynn

I am not random.
Not a scribble in the margins
of a better idea.
Not filler.
Not chance.
Not background noise
to someone else’s crescendo.

I am not the sum
of opinions and observations
held together by skin and thread.

No.
I was authored.

Composed.
Word by word,
with breath on the tongue
and blood on the hands.

Before mountains knew their shape,
before gravity held anything down,
before carbon atoms interlaced,
He held me
In something like longing.

He held me
like a line He couldn’t wait to write
even knowing
what it would cost.

What kind of writer
chooses paper
that will pierce Him?

What kind of poet
bleeds for his workmanship?

This kind.
Only Him.

He did not flinch.
He did not edit the plan.
He did not stop at
“It’s too much.”

He kept writing.
Wrote me through water,
through womb,
through my wrongs,
through my lies,
and family lines
and fragile lungs.

He crafted me
the form and imagery,
these limbs, this laugh,
Knowing my debauchery

And when I cried the first time,
He didn’t recoil.
He rejoiced.
Because the poem
Had a voice.

You can’t tell me
that’s ordinary.

You can’t see the dirt and dust
and think seeds were anything but
planted and watered.

There is too much rhythm here.
Too much deliberate.

My pulse is a line break.
My breath, enjambment.
My thoughts even speak

And still—
still I forget.
Still I want to be
easier to read.
Cooler.
More shareable.
A catchy caption.

But He won’t have it.

Because He didn’t write me
for applause.
He wrote me
for presence.
For communion.
For community.

I am not hung in a gallery.
No, His workmanship walks.

A breathing composition
set to the tempo
of redemption.

And some days,
yes,
I want to cross myself out.
To say this can’t be holy
this mess can’t be set apart,
these flaws,
this fragile skin.

But even then,
He holds me like a first draft
He’ll never give up on.

He calls me
poem.

Not past tense.
Not "was."
Not "used to be."
Am.

I am His poiēma.
His written line that cost Him everything
but He still said
“She is mine.”

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Letters from Lucifer

A poem inspired by The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis about the lies I almost believed, and the Grace that redeemed me. | by Taylor O’Lynn

Dearest young Taylor
Our bodies
Are meant for pleasure
Our skin
Meant to be touched
It wouldn't feel right if it were actually wrong
Just look how many want to —
Here is where you find your value
Take it easy
Lean on back
Let it ride
We’ll let it slide
Call it even

Dear Taylor,
Have you noticed the size of her ass?
The cinch in her waist?
Of course you have—in any case.
She’s got something you don’t.
And you’re lacking for it.
Time for affirmations
’Cause you can't ignore it:
You are beautiful
You are kind
You are talented with a potent mind
Seems so simple
Seems so sweet
Secretly, I take defeat..
You didn’t hear that
Thank the dark—
I don’t know what I’d do if she found her spark..

Dearest Taylor,
This feeling in your gut—
Unease and pain.
What if I told you
I could make it go away
Just the very same?
Bond you to your friends
It’s comradery
Don’t be lame.
Take a hit,
A puff,
Deep inhale—
Oh please,
Tell me how you feel.
You're feeling better, right?
Aren’t you glad you did it?
No one tell her—
Tomorrow morning will be different.

Oh, dearie?
What would you say if I told you
You could call in anything you wanted?
That you were one with god,
All on your own.
Just write it down and it’s yours.
The stars will align
The earth will turn
Mercury will hide
And you’ll get your return.
Whoever you want to be—
Do we have a deal?

Me me me
I I I
Self self self—
That’s right where he wants me.
See,
I didn’t know.
The darkness never comes out and says
Worship me—so
Just
Worship yourself
And get all you ever wanted.
But at what cost?
Perpetually being haunted.

My mind, a graveyard
With spirits running, screaming—
Tearing at the seams,
Tempting me to bleeding
Or leaning
Into another set of eyes,
Another pair of lips,
Or a supple pair of thighs.
Validation.
Sensation.
The hottest in the room.
Getting anyone I want,
Anyone I choose.
Cocky—but true.
My pride:
A ruse.
Insecurity at the bottom,
Emptiness ensues.
Take another hit.
Make it go away.
I am beautiful.
I am confident.
I don’t wanna see another day..

Hey Taylor!
Hit the gas.
Not the joint or the books.
Leave the journal.
Leave the friends.
Join the dirty crooks.
That’s all you’ll ever be, see?
Your body—
It’s filthy.
Your family—
They hate you.
No one
Will miss you.
The world keeps turning.
And maybe—get this—
If you defeat death,
You’re as powerful as it gets.
C’mon.
Pull the trigger.
Down the hatch.
Do you think you’re enough?
If you don’t do it,
Someone else will.
I’ve got you by the scruff.
I was kidding—
You’re a god.
Perfect as you are.
It’s just your mental illness.
Wild. Bizarre.

The story gets crazy.
I could spill it if you want.
But here’s how it ends:
I never would’ve thought—

Are you there?

Welcome home,
He cheers.
Curling in the dust,
Head in my hands—

He met me there
And I hear harps and harmonies.
The heavens above rejoice.

Hold me through this,
I cry
For a mercy
That He has already won.

Blowing away the dust and
Cracking apart the pages
Of the only love story
Ever written
As He introduces Himself—
One Word at a time.

Arms open wide—
The same as mine
When I ran back to sin
Time and time again.

But His grace is the smell of
Linens, lavender, and warm honey.

Every morning,
The mercies—
Like breakfast and coffee.
Freshly made
And most important.

From the chaos of the chasm I made,
I stand there.
Hair tattered
And knees scraped.
Tried to do it myself—
Tricked and torn,
Burnt and bruised.
Wrongly convinced.
Now
Rightfully convicted.

I clutch the hem of His garment,
Reluctant to ever let it go again.
He says:
You are forgiven.

Not thief.
Not liar.
Not cheat.
Not whore.
Not Taylor.

Daughter.

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