It is first the arrival,
that awkward hello
knowing tears will bring you close.
Then it’s the revival,
even though
you've already had the proper dose
and now all you need is growth.
It is Never survival.
Why is the Bible
only used for revival?
We're all simply waiting
for the next uplifting,
self-sufficing,
communal routine.
We're all just
chasing
the feel-good.
But there is challenge in the less extreme
and destiny in a humble spirit,
one who is yearning
deeper learning
and discerning the hidden
sin
within
the show.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 6:25 PM UTC
Pain smells like rotten,
tastes like bitter
and walks like its storming.
It clings to your neck like a
snake spitting venom,
its tears like lightning
eyes pleading like the thunder,
screaming,
terrorized by its own voice.
It only dreams up nightmares,
its beating heart speaks louder than
a bass skin drum,
kicking an bouncing,
fighting, announcing:
Save me,
Hold me,
Mother Help.
And sometimes she does.
Other times not.
So the pain escalates,
and lies there confused,
soaked in a fountain of tears
and a mountain of more troubles
yet to climb.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 3:14 PM UTC
I used to think I understood
the way things were meant to be
going off of what I have learned
rhyming off what I have heard
I sang confidently a simple song
because I thought I knew the right
while others followed along
with beliefs and ideas considered that of sin
so I told my stories again and again.
over-confident.
But I forgot to ask questions.
and I forgot about the grey.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 2:42 PM UTC
It’s like a song, sometimes.
One that is loud, clear spoken
and can’t escape the head
despite tricks and tries of other phrases,
other verses,
tunes or talents.
It plays over and over
consuming the will to ponder all else.
And then it fades,
somehow,
no one really knows.
It simply stops
like a consecutive set of hiccups that was once churning the insides of a suffering gut.
It drifts somewhere,
with the thin idea that it may appear some other day.
Without a word of depart,
the song finds its way into a tunnel of another mind.
Consuming and repeating,
loud and clear spoken,
unable to escape the head.
And suddenly
I long for it to return.
The gumption,
the sentimental sincerity,
and I wish I had simply let my song sing itself.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 2:52 PM UTC
no mad man
would loose
everything to follow
something that he could not touch
hear or see
taste or even swallow
no mad man
would ever choose
to let a good life slip away
one that had meaning.
one that was leading
to a path that
would not lead him far astray
yet,
a nomad.
would loose
everything to follow
someone that has touched him
listened
saw him in his deepest sorrow
But no mad man
could be that mad.
to give up his life,
surrender himself,
and call his journey
Nomad.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
Growing up,
she was always there,
keeping a watchful eye as I ran the shores of the creek.
She was my escort and witness each time I proudly snatched up a bullfrog
and the perfect playmate on rare snow-days when we would bury ourselves deep in the pile of snowflakes that were littering our driveway.
In her caring nature, she would lay beside me on the days when I was sick.
She would rest her head upon my lap, reassure and comfort me all the while.
When I would stupidly stumble and scrape myself bleeding, she'd kiss the wound better until the blood dried and my heart caught up to my tears.
She and I would play together: dress-up and other make-believes.
We sometimes adorned ourselves in fancy clothes and danced around the kitchen, making up routines or plays to preform in front of whoever I ordered to watch the product of our silly games.
Some nights, she would lay down beside me before I feel asleep.
I would listen to her breathing; heavy and peacefully slow.
Somehow the beat of our breath would begin to fuse and we'd drift off in synchronized silence.
Then, she would sheepishly wake open her eyes just to kiss my face or the front side of my hand, assuring my half awake heart that she loved me.
But as time went on, we both grew up.
I made the choice to move far away.
Upon some odd occasion, I would visit her again.
During each reunion, she would never cease to stay close to my side, trying to pick up the days we had lost together, cherishing my now foreign presence,
wishing we had more time.
Now
I am wishing for more time with you.
I am longing for a blissful afternoon walk around the pond with you.
I am reminiscing in the feeling of running through the fields
and along the shore with you.
I am searching for another day to to lie basking in the sunshine with you.
Oh, to have just one more summer popsicle on the deck you,
or one more leaf-pile jumping Autumn eve with you.
But far mostly,
I am praying that you are not mad at what we had to do to you,
and simply just wishing that you had more than 90
short
dog years
to be my loving, loyal puppy, Lu.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
In the winter, this street seems hidden.
All that one might see is white snow turned black.
It is the snow that hides the broken sidewalks,
covers the graffiti like a closed journal of old gangs and slang and talks.
The winter wisps away the birds that live on stale fast food,
and makes the kids who joyride their rusty bikes stay inside,
hidden away from all their summer crime and games and
love and drugs.
Winter pushes out the life that paints the division in this town.
Each soul that roams this route can hear
the voice of summer when it comes around.
Summer sounds like heavy music that lasts a second driving by.
It sounds like men that holler to their best friend's sister,
and mothers scolding their daughters
as they wine and yell and cry.
Summer smells like chicken, garbage, ****
and it tastes like too much freedom.
The daylight grows stronger and the nights get louder,
so fathers stay out longer, drinking far past early hours.
But summer shows a smile from an older brother to his sister.
He takes her hand and slowly,
and walks her across this busy, lonely parade of feet.
They head towards their worn down home - a mile and a half too close,
to this broken and divided street.
And the road to heaven takes weeks to walk.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
If I were to be a flower
I would be a sun,
she said.
I'd shine out among the rest
my pedals all glitz and glimmer
And me, said another
If I was a flower
I would be wild
carefree, lighthearted
basking in those who
call themselves the sun
yet I, another chimed in
I would be like the May
I'd carry the wanderers to a place of new
and when they get there, give them comfort,
reliance,
provide them with hope
Don't forget me,
said one more.
If I was a flower,
I would be wheat,
I would be the one to feed the nations
and hunger would cease by my name.
And I, whispered the last
If I were a flower,
I would be a wall.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
Hesitation was my last mistake
Believing was my first,
a salty lake made clear
I can see,
every twisted path you take
It is selfish ambition,
the path you walk,
flavored with the wicked cursed
that leads only to frustration
and you suppose
none of which you do today
effects the road you walk tomorrow,
that each bridge you count burned
leaves ash afloat to future skies
and where it settles brings no sorrow.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
My river flows uphill
there are lilies along each side
a guide for the stream
they shout to the water
keep climbing
push forward
My river flows uphill
Because I am always looking up
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC