graceless

You say it every week,
    we all have grace to share.

 False. 

       I don't,
  and I know it,

 but still you say it and insist it and look right at me,
     disappointed when I don't "share my grace."

     You won't believe me,

 I know you won't, 

because I look good.

     I'm not pierced or inked up;

        there's no baby-belly revealing promiscuity.

I talk and walk and dress right, and you do not know

              there is no grace here.

I am an empty well,

    a fruitless tree,

 an unwalled garden.

I give a promise

    of worth, of blessing, of beauty,

 but I am helpless to deliver.

      I know what this means.

It means the Gardener will cut me off,

   and burn me up.

 I don't want that

        (who does?)

    but wanting is not changing.

It is my emotions that are all wrong,

         and I don't know how to change them.

There is no grace here.

              And I fear

                    there never will be.