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.

Jesus Wept.

And I only Sat,

Staring. Staring.
Staring.

The sleeve pitched too low,
The fist that curls like a mouth,
Sour with regret.

An endless round of lashings,
All thirty-nine, wrought upon
Ourselves.

Backs against the wall,
Deadweight in our hearts,
All our fault.

Shame is not from God.

The skyline was carefully cut paper,
Notebook lines ruling the windows,
Writing out the lives of figures
In apartments of faded graphite

And bright red pen; the letters
Are only their dancing forms,
Backlit by a tired orange glow--
Other characters blacked out,
With a scribbled X, squares
Of dormant life, flickering.
Is it another person moving in?
Or only someone who finds
Comfort in the darkness of night,
Staring at the leaking ceiling,
Born from tear stains
On rough-handled paper
And the hope that their words
Will somehow subdue the pains
From trying to decipher
this city

The roads of my voice
Are uneven. 

There are dips and
Unforseen turns.
Gorges and caverns,
Wells that sink
Deep into the earth.
Some syllables
Reach to the sky,
Align with the sway
Of the leaves.
I walk like a beggar
Trying to find
My way along the winds,
My throat raw
As I say the words that
mean something.

Do we see the line
Of purity, & tiptoe
As close to it as
Possible, smiling
As we taunt it,
Reaching over to
Touch the ground
Without our feet
Stepping over,
Teetering on the
Edge of what’s
Considered sin?

By walking in
Christ, we see the
Line, and walk the
Other way--as far
& as long as we can.

Sometimes we forget
How many of our habits
Are in honor of someone

the wind stole away the words
of the souls I imagined
leaning on the deck of the ship,
our shoulders touching.
the clouds rolled like purpose,
nothing and everything.
my hands grew numb on silver,
anchored to the sea.
I sank into the feeling, a stone
to be exchanged for
the cornerstone of my Father’s
grace and Holy Spirit

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.

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.

When my head is spinning with the blades of excuses
Used by the enemey,
I see Your love in the light of the drapes,
Your glory in the morning.
I say to myself “I am nothing, I am nothing.”
But my hands continue to make plans
Without You in them.
My heart bows to shame, my ears to false prophets,
And I kneel before You, Lord,
Wondering what kind of love allows You to be faithful
To such an unworthy servant.

When I pray,
I stand on my Father’s shoes.
I feel Him sway beneath me,
Leading me in a dance
Only He knows the steps to.

I stared at the words
Until the trees outside
My dimming windows
Started to wilt & bend
Down to the ground.
With a hesitant finger,
I struck the key that
Would only delay all
Of my worries:
D-e-l-e-t-e.

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.

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, eventually. 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?

A fraying string, sagging down,
A bridge fallen into a chasm—
My head heavy on its stem,
Joints all dislocated—
A pile of mismatched items,
Their use, coalition, unclear
To my strained eyes—
Gaze lifted beyond understanding,
The silken Spirit reached down,
Using the useless parts
For His enduring plan.

The arrogance of our consciousness,
The unreliable narrator inside
All of us—

We are blinded by dainty eye masks
Of half-truths & winding thoughts:
How to get around it--

I mute my snaking mind
And ask for truth,
To truly see,
Jesus.

My heart is so deep
In Jesus
That anyone searching
For me,
Must find Him.

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.