A distorted identity card,
A deck of Queens and Kings,
Among whom we have made
ourselves the Joker.

progress only feels like
the past i am giving
up on

Speedbumps on my skin,
Worries scrambling up a hill,
Encased in the backyard
Of who I was.
The nostalgia hit my heart,
Pleated its lips,
And begged me to stay.
I watched as the returned
Insecurity changed the color
Of the sky—
A dilapidated yellow,
A buzzing of anxiety,
A thought spiral instigated
by the Enemy.

The robe was borrowed,
Stitched to my skin—
I tried to rip it away,
And wear one of my
Own choosing—
Only the thread was
Made of love, giving
Me pain to ultimately
Save me from the folly
Of wearing my own
Righteousness—

My loyalty blinded me
To the absence of feelings,
The construct I had created
To ward off unwanted emotions.
The position was filled—
An unattainable relationship
I chose on purpose, imagining
Butterflies when there were none.
A glowing heart, but one
That did not align with mine.
I was loyal to a safety measure,
My eyes seeing no one else in that
Enamoring light—

She spoke as if she wasn’t sure
If the words formed by her lips
Were really hers—only uncertainties,
Fairies flitting convoluted ideas
Through her mind’s eye.
Was it too much to say?
Did she truly want to give all
The pieces of herself away? 

It was too much. . .
They would not understand. . .
Dark lashes framing tired eyes,
Life was harder than she thought.
What if she wasn’t the unwavering light
She was supposed to be?
So many insecurities,
Yet none so powerful
As the red-limned thought
That Jesus would not know her,
And she would fall into the pits--
Welcome only to darkness
And the cold, cold smiles
Of the Enemies who succeeded.

A fire burns,
yet it is still
pleasureable?
Mind games,
and supple words,
He makes me
feel wanted.
But what part
of me
is he
after?

The light on the sewing machine left on,
Designs laid out, patterns discarded—
My fingers were hesitant
To let the fabric run through the needle.
I recalled the time it plummeted,
Toward my small, pink nail, the silence
And piercing pain that followed.
It was only the tip of my finger.
What would it feel like with long, rusted
Nails, pushed through my wrists?
Would I scream?
Would my torn vocal chords
Deafen the revolting crowds?
Or would I hang there, as Jesus did,
My heart full of love for those who
Condemned me, outweighing the burden
Of scathing sin, flowing like smoke
From the masses and pressuring
My frame until it suffocated?
“Forgive them,
For they do not know what they do.”
Lord, I could never have done
what you did.
That is why I need You.
And I always will.

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.

Shadows

Become

So much

Darker

When they

Overlay

Each other

Shema—

His words leak
Into the stones
Of the pasture wall,
Into the folds of
My heart.

Shema—

Open our ears
And let our actions

Reflect the love
Of our God.

Shema—

Listen closely;
Let our attention
Wander over the
Goodness of
His word.

Shema—

With all our heart,
Strength, and soul,
Desire the guidance
He provides out of
The love we cannot
Understand.

Shema—

Help us comprehend,
Lord, open our ears
To who You are.

Shema—

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?

The busy-bodied thoughts
That complained they were
Late for work, slowed their
Pace as a gentle Spirit
Descended on the grubby,
Activity-ridden streets.
Their hands loosened their
Grip on the hard-edged
Briefcases, and the buzz
In their bodies settled
Into a lackadaisical hum.

My fingers began to ache
As they waved—
As if the bones dislocated
From the enthusiasm.

My smile suddenly felt
Small and inconsequential,
Forced as it stretched
My dry skin.

I was swaying back & forth,
Drained by all of this
Social interaction.

i lived in somnambulism,
Going through the motions,
Finding myself curled
ontop of the refrigerator,
Working surrounded
by walls of grey tears,
Seeing faces only as
muffled blurs of color,
Pinching my arm,
Banging on doors,
none of which worked.
I was awake only in my fear
of living the rest of my life
Submerged in the bleary
Tape of a damaged
camera roll.

I said sorry in my mind.

I reconstructed all of it--
Our past conversations,
The exchange made
Merely minutes ago—
I meant none of it,
What I really meant was. . .
. . .I know . . . Because. . .

Analogging a new answer
In my head, convincing myself
That I had said it all along—
Why do you still act
As if I did wrong? 


Or, perhaps, you brushed it off.
It was not strange to you.
It did not even stick out--
Because you couldn’t see 

All the things I could have said
And wished that I had.

I agonize over the words
That never leave my mouth,
Planning the past meticulously
Until it numbs the weight
That hangs over my chest
From the fumbled encounter
I remember so vividly.

I said sorry in my head,
Were my lips saying
Something different?
I said sorry in my mind.
But even then,
nothing is right,
nor organized,
did I even say sorry?
Or was it a fractured thought,
Underneath the pile,
Grown so high,
Of admonitions and guilt,
Screaming, yet never
Reaching the light?

The chains cinched tighter
Around my wrists.
I felt them dig into my ankles,
And my blood grow hot
In my throat.
But my mind was clear—
Sinking deeply into a soft,
Pastel embrace.
I was in my faith.
Jesus held me, his promises
Forming a warm wall
Around my soul.
I let go of the outward pain,
Knowing no one
Could touch me here.

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.

Fallen heads and tucked ankles that
Grew numb under the pressure
Of their prayers.

The Sanctuary was deserted,
Save for those still held
By Jesus.

He drew them Close to Him,
Laying love and peace
On their hearts.

With time, the spluttering organs
Were no longer made
Of stone.

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.

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 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.