She said the walls always
Seemed to march towards her,
Closing in, squeezing, until she
Couldn’t breathe.
Her eyes pressed shut, and her
Hands didn’t know what to do with
Themselves. I tried to comfort her,
But it was useless.
It seems to me that no matter how
Small a space is, God fills the air and
The very walls, living in the fears we
Perceive all around.
My touch was cold on her stressed skin,
But God’s is gentle, everlasting, like
Laundry fresh from the dryer, warm
And comforting.

Did the mouths open wide,
Leaving lasting screeches
Into the bullet-swept air—
Birds singing sorrowfully
On their breaking perch?
Or were their lips pinched
Closed, knowing their loved
Ones were too far to hear
Them call? So many bodies,
Silent, as if they were set
There like stage props.

the
fragile,
glittering baubles
dropped slowly, one at
a time, crashing into the waves
of sea glass beneath the billowing tree,
their weight relieving the pressure on the tired
branches and somehow making the twinkle lights glow
brighter.

A delicate wax seal over stained,

Crumpled paper, grooved with an


Ornate design as if it were meant

For the royal family; but the note

Underneath is torn at the corners

And bent at odd angles, utterly

Undeserving of such a beautiful

Mark--as if they were reasurring

Words pressed into a stubborn

Heart, truthful even as the paper

Refuses to believe in their warmth.

My life raised her hand to her forehead,
Gasped daintily, and fell backward,
Expecting someone to catch her.
She didn’t remember falling.
Her memory was patchy.
How had she ended
Up on the floor?
It was only
When she went
To stand up, when
She didn’t expect human
Hands to help her to her feet,
And reached for a loving, golden
Spirit, that her bones stopped aching,
And her heart suddenly forgot why it fell.

'It weighs so much,' my arms

Protest—in the moment, they

Cannot see anything outside

The pain, but they will forget,

They will grow stronger, and

The memory will be replaced

With longing as a burden much

Heavier adds to the stones

Already shaking in my hands,

On my shoulders, and knocking

Around in my head—the weight

Is momentary, yet permanent.

We are a stained glass sphere—
Every individual a different color
For Him to shine His light through,
Different tints in intricate patterns
Revolving around one another and
Overlaying the beauty and life He
Gave us to make brand new shades.  
But some panes are ***** and nearly
Opague, blocking the gentle light
Of grace he sends to meet our eyes.
His righteousness is blinding, and
Sometimes we find it easier to let
Gunk build up to block it out, rather
Than face the spotlight on the the
Wrongs we have done—but that
Only leaves the glass mosiac of His
Creation distorted and incomplete,
His heart aching as his Son weeps.
We can spend every moment at
Our colored panes, scrubbing, &
Polishing until our arms are weak,
But only salvation will restore His
Stained glass children to His glory.

There is one phrase that we all
Know the definition of--a word
That has a thousand tangled
Up meanings, but one we accept
In society as positive & empty
Because it is easier than addressing
The bloodshot eyes & blank stares
That it conceals—I say: “I am fine.”
Do you believe me? No. But, still,
I will continue to say it. Our paths
Cross like an icy voyage, a silent
Relationship that will be forgotten
Once our forced proximity fades
Away in a few years. I almost
Said something, once--but I
Couldn't seem to meet your eyes,
And the only words that came
From my mouth were: "I'm fine."
The next time I say it, will you
Walk the other way? Will I?

I navigate with my own GPS,
Following the intuition that
Only leads me off of cliffs
And into trenches—Lord,
Will You take the wheel?
My foot is cramping on the
Pedal, my eyes are dozing,
And a group of Sagging
Pants smashed through my
Dashboard, gun in hand,
As I drove through an area
That I thought was good—
Take the wheel, Lord,
You see the flaws in my
Judgement--& I see that
There are no shortcuts
To Your plan.

It had been years;
Yet I still felt like
The kid sitting
At a small, silent
Lemonade stand,
Watching the cars
Pass by and the
Ice melt, clinking
Together in the
Celebratory ‘cheers’
I imagined people
Said as they drove
By, smiling and
Laughing at my
Continued failure.

I set out to answer the question
Of how much weight simple words
Could hold—could they crush
Shoulders, evicerate hearts like
A falling anvil? Or were they more
Like acid rain, almost soft and gentle,
Unseeming until they sting more
Than water? There is always so much
Weight on my chest, and I suppose
It must be from the countless, heavy

Words left unsaid; but I don’t want
To be the hands to heave an anvil
On some unsuspecting bystander’s

Head--or the clouds sprinkling
Deadly tears onto unblemished skin. 

How much weight can words hold?
But I think the question is more
Accurately: how much weight are
We willing to transfer onto others?

When will I crouch down in disbelief,
Holding a beeping metal rod as I
Stare down at the unfeeling mud
That hides my supposed salvation? 

Do I find these answers that I seek
Because I am out looking for them
On windswept ***** beaches, both
Crowded and filled with lightning,
Or do I never find them at all?

I rest for nothing. Day or night,
I sift through granulated rock,
Hoping to find something slightly
Shiny, even if my hands are ruined
And red from the relentless digging.

All along, the answers were not
At my feet, but resting on my shoulder:
A gentle hand, a waiting embrace,
And a father who wanted to walk
With me, not watch as I scrambled
On rocks to insanity—I found
Gilded answers, but not through
A machine or mindlessly scratching.

I found the greatest treasure of all:

My Lord & Savior, Jesus.

[who am I?]
                                                             ­      Hardworking and determined,
                                                     ­          Statistics on a spreadsheet—
                                         That is all I am. 


                                                I have to be reminded that
                               I am not simply my resumé--
            I am full of love and passion,
Overflowing with the Holy Spirit.

My misdirected goals are only fuel for
         The accomplishments He has already
                   Ordained before my first screeching.
                                       --There is always time to pivot.

                                                      A daughter of God,
                                                            That­ is all I am.

There is nothing keeping me here—
Paper aeroplanes encircle my head,
Boarding my thoughts to faraway places,
And I pace faster and faster, seeking purpose
In the dull trees without the love of life—
Even the greenery wilts under the pressure
Of the city—all we can do is keep unremittingly
Busy, words zero degrees, and shoulders cold.
A smile is only a pad of butter, sweet and sickly,
Disguising the anxious want of another lost soul.
I spin in place, waiting for the sky to change,
And give peace under the umberous dark,
But even in the dredges of midnight, 

The sky is a sluggish fog of pollution,
And my lungs shudder from the thought
Of the poison not only inhaled, but filling our
Young minds, brimming with manipulated
Falsity—again the aeroplanes, they want
To take me away, despite the knowledge
That nowhere is free of its problems. 

There is nothing keeping me here,
But sometimes clarity comes
from staying still.

Gratified storm clouds,
Rain that never stops,
Slowing its downpour—
Did all of those tears
Travel down the drains,
Through the aquaducts,
To the Earth’s core?

Has that become the
Epicenter of our world:
The Sky's Sorrow?

Unending frustration
Over the workings
Of a brain I did not
Design—and knowledge
That its shortcomings
Revolve around a reason,
One that is perfect,
And not the vacillating
Mess I condemn of it.
Why must I want to be
Anyone but the person
Under these meninges? 

I am not who think I am,
But who is that to

Begin with?

His face was stitched together
With Grief--a Frankenstein’s
Monster searching for his grave.
But he held it together because
Of the angel eyes that looked
Up at him as if she saw the
Tired lines and blood leaking
From his torn sutures, and
Only smiled, hugging him, and
Never mentioning the pain she
Was trying to heal with love.

He cries with us

Even when He

Knows our tears

Are unnecessary.

Jesus Wept.

And I only Sat,

Staring. Staring.
Staring.

I watch my fingers curl up
As if they do not know
How to lay flat, relaxed.
I am a strung bow,
Pulled back and taut,
Wincing at the arrow
I constantly hold—
When can I let go? 

When will my stare
Stop swerving from
The target? Nothing
Less than the bullseye
Will do, but exhaustion
Tears at me, causing
My hands to warble
Farther and farther
From what I intend

To reach--the goal
I cannot see myself
Achieving anymore.