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if you looked in my window
you'd see a shattered girl crying
you'd see a broken dream dying
if you saw in that shattered girl crying
you'd see a heartbroken past
you'd see an approaching darkness fast
if you saw in that dream dying
you'd see a thunder storm wail
you'd see a shattered girl pale
if you looked in my window
you'd see memories haunting
you'd see dead hopes taunting
if you stared at the memories haunting
you'd understand why life is scary
you'd understand a sliver of burdens i carry
if you stared at dead hopes taunting
you'd understand my fear
you'd understand why i can't live here
if you looked in my window
you'd see nothing
you'd see running
if you wondered about the nothing
you'd find horrors all your own
you'd find yourself dethroned
if you wondered about the running
you'd find the real reason
you'd find yourself charged with treason
Just because you can't see your killer,
Doesn't mean they're not stabbing you,
Through the heart and head.
I'm having tea with Life,
And his band of Disappointments.
They dine at my expense,
And they're a hungry bunch of guests.

Tea turned into Supper,
Where the Disappointments drank
My finest wine,
And Life wiped his cruel mouth
On my tablecloth.

You can't have supper without dessert,
So they ate up more of my
Food for thought.
And if you stay for dessert,
You may as well spend the night.
So they did
And burgled my pantry of hopes
For a midnight snack.

One night was lovely,
So Life cackled, "Why not stay two?"
And two turned to a week,
And a week turned into
My sickeningly merry guests
Moving into my dreams,
And inviting in Doubt,
To live with them too,
And of course
Pay no rent.

So I watch my chaotic household
Of a skull,
Where Life has made himself at home
And brought all of his friends.
I stare dully at my ruined
Dining room of thought,
Which they have dominated.
And look wearily for a spare idea
In my raided cupboards.

I've never been one
To evict friends,
So I suppose they're here to stay.
But learn a lesson from me,
And don't ever
Have Life over for tea.
I like pens that bleed
Ink that smears
Girls with scars
Broken parts
***** clothes
Stained sheets
The hint of blood
The taste of lust
The smells of love
Nights through morning
Mornings to night
Suns that sleep
Moons that dream
And all the pretty
You hide underneath
Those pretty
Pretty
Pretty things
Tonight, I spoke into the darkness,
No stars to light my way,
       The black void all encompassing

   My words drifting up in ribbons,
          I waited for something, anything to happen

              I felt a rumble that was akin to ripples emanating from a drop of water hitting a puddle

        I was small next to the impossible,
And when it spoke back, it changed me
      
        The blank canvas of stark black was pierced by blades of light,
    The sky becoming a shutter in a rain storm
           Blowing open and closed
       The words came and wrapped themselves across my body in its entirety
        Constricting my air flow

             I felt myself shatter
  An implosion of feeble glass
       Ricocheting through a skeleton of paper, reflecting the brightness above inside ripped skin

                I was nothing.
                I didn't exist.
                I floated in an incomprehensible place that had no end, no walls

     No ceiling or floor

            Just illumination in every direction

                    I opened my eyes
  
    And was blinded by an incredible radiance

      I shut my eyes tight and swatted in front of me
        My hand struck something metal and I yelped in pain
          
          I shot up and stared downward
    Towards the desklamp unplugged on the floor
        
          Breathing heavily, I sat upright in my bed,
                 *Struggling to pull away words that had already sunken in
Writer's block
A carpenter found driftwood
From a wreck upon the sea
He looked at it with interest
What kind would it be?

He found that it was oaken
Mighty, strong and hale
But it had been broken
By tempest and by gale

He was building houses
From such sturdy oak
So he took the driftwood
Upon it for to work

He carved with sharpened chisels
He began to sand
He had red, raw cuts of pain
And splinters in his hands

He worked with it patiently
Imposed on it his will
It will be something wondrous
He's working on it still

He loves that piece of driftwood
He salvaged from the sea
For the Carpenter is Jesus

And that piece of wood is ME


SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/23/2016
Jesus has had to work pretty ******* me. I'm still rough around the edges, but I'm being sanded smooth. It is a painful process I assure you. But when I look back to what I was even 3 years ago I'm in awe of what he's done.

Thank you for loving me and all my flaws. I may not be what I should be but I'm better than I used to be by far!
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