Lord, the darkness has receded away,
Here You have always been, never leaving.
You have pressed against my soul, it withered.
Your Spirit tells me there was purpose to me breaking;

So if my brokenness brings You glory, then use my brokenness.

Whispers the heart, insisting and so soft,
"Life goes on. Death is not dying."
Faith, that is the message. Let His
will be done, however it works out.

Fears are there. Yes, they can consume.
They can strangle and inhibit the
very will to walk on. Ease them away,
He walks with you, soothing and firm.

We rumble through our eggshells,
rushing through buildings of steel.
Pushing, shoving, important in
our unimportance. Unbalanced.

We eat too much and love far
too little. Strain ours ears to
hear gossip and slander. Be
the image we pretend to be.

These are of such insignificance.
They are bottles of nothing, with
shaded glass. Emblems of issues
that are manufactured. Unfeeling.

The truth is in Him. When we
face trials of aggravations, tears
of lost hope, that is when we
need His care the most. Forgiven.

He has always been. He will
always be. He will glide the
care of the body if you give
Him the word. Yes, He answers.

So to Jesus, I appeal. I put my
trust and my fate. Though
blocked in fear, still I marvel,
that He is there for me. Amen.

the caterpillar can't comprehend the life of a butterfly x

Oh, how I dread the laughs of the ignorant
As "the Bunch" swim in their own stupidity
Shielding themselves from the truth

The truth couldn't shut them up
Nothing could
So, I left them to drown in their shallowness

You would think they would learn
But it's a hopeless case.

woe to man who created pills
they give me chills
they make me feel
take too many they'll make you ill
they deceive my fantasies
their thrill is real

woe to the man who made **** pills
with every one I take,
a piece of me is killed.

Sometimes sunshine streams through the windows,
like a tousled head of hair. Bright and solid light

that opens the room to dangling frames of dust.
The dust collects itself under the furniture.

Hiding, transforming, resisting change. It becomes
its own entity, its own statement. Gradually the dust

overcomes the sunshine and the room is again bleached
in bleakness. Voices are gradual, distant sounding, as they

try and survive in the ***** room. Sometimes sunshine
streams through the windows like a growing sense of doom.

Hard and harsh vibrancy that collides with the anticipation
of the occupants. They are uncertain how to proceed with

their daily routines. Like the dust, they collect themselves into
arbitrary points of views. Mangled intentions that are never

stated, but instead are felt like rotting fruit in a basket.
The smell permeates all areas of reality as it dominates the

passion of the souls. They moan in obligation. They whine in
muted patterns of surrender as they whip around the room

like the dust floating painfully in the air. Sometimes sunshine
streams through the windows, like a bloated body in water.

The beginning of the race always promises to have an ending.
The ending always promises to begin again. But the room will

always stay as it is, dust and doom its statement to the world.
And, sometimes, sunshine streams through the windows.