God you’re the one laughing at me as I worry I look dumb for writing a religious poem 
Yet you send me shooting stars as love letters
As you run beside me in the cold
You are a father
A brother (a mother?)
An artist who sculpted me with clay
You parted your lips and I emerged as a note
We shared jokes as I left my mother’s womb

Yet you are a punching bag. 
You are mine
I assert my authority
I gave you my service. I went to Mass. I prayed.
Won’t you give me all I ask
If not, you don’t love me, says your spoiled daughter

And you the all-knowing parent
Decide when you have indulged in my quaint idiocy enough
You send me a sign
A spiritual slap to the face
the much-needed sting
You show me my faults to deflate my ego 
You help me to fail to show the more fulfilling way to succeed
I think you’ve left me alone in the dark
Until I realize I cannot see you because I have closed my eyes

You stand with open arms made of sweet-smelling flowers
You wipe my tears with a whispering breeze
I hear your encouraging smile in the wind
Pieces of you beautiful creation remind me you made me just as lovely
Your peonies push me forward

You send the sunrise as a wedding gift to the “Bride of Christ”
And the moon as your vows
Like the band ever present on the spouse’s finger
Your commitment shows each day

Now you smile as I scrawl my pen over the paper
Using the gift you devoted to me
Do you laugh at my uncertainty? At the paragraphs covered by X’s?
Is it amusing I fear offending either you or the reader? (or both?)

“Just write”. You whisper 
“All your words make me proud, my daughter.
Just write.”