The sloppiest poem,
A few scant words,
Splotchy ink and
Crumpled paper—
It now lays flat
Behind glass,
Pored over
By scholars
And plastered
On tall windows,
Does it have value?
—Who is qualified to
Judge what is ‘good?’

Laughs marooning on the shore
The wind tried to drown them
But the sea only wanted more

I was
Supposed to be good at it.
The words were supposed to flow,
Unconditionally. I was supposed
To make grown adults huddle
Under their bedsheets, booklight
Spreading a faint halo over the
Pages in a way they hadn’t done
Since they were a child.

I was
Supposed to be a storyteller;
A way for people to feel heard
As they escaped from a world
They wished they didn’t know—
But, now, at least, understood a
Little better. I was supposed to. . .
I was supposed to. . . Did I
Overestimate myself?

I was never
A prolific writer, brimming with
The prose that made the final
Page of a book feel like a funeral;
But I thought I could craft people
That resonated, that seemed real--
It seems I was wrong.  

I was
Supposed to realize what I wanted

To be a long, long time ago, and
Now. . . Well, now, I'm only
Supposed to move on.

You were Malaise—
A smile for my questions,
Talking benevolently—
And I was the hesitant
Realization that you had
never really answered
A single one
of them.

There was a transience to the laughs,
A way it all fell out of focus--
Bright for an instant, only to diminish
Into something that never existed.

Slick-tongued quips and smiles
Enticed by a topical instance,
How do I feel knowing
That nothing is lasting?

An umbrella of headphones,
And an open bible--
The world is never constant,
But Jesus is the exception.

What is the basis of my faith?
What is the thought, the belief
I have, that casts colored glass
Over the rest of who I am?
Is it the word “love,” “forgiveness”
Or is it “disappointment?”
Am I bathing in a subconscious
Foundation of not being enough?
How can I consistently do right
By Him if I do not have faith
In his love?

The thoughts in my eyes
Fastened on the back
Of the figure across the room,
Alone, surrounded by four
Empty chairs.

There was nothing stopping me
From walking over--

I had so many questions,
Filling up the ears in my head--
But they would never be voiced
Aloud, and never to the one
I needed to hear them.

I was rooted in my seat,
My pencil gouging bruises
In my hand, growing limp
And numb along with my heart,
When I realized I lacked the
Courage to face someone

I had every reason to trust.

Was it the silence to my prayers
That kept me seated?

Or was it a selfish hindrance,
An answer I formed myself
Out of fear?

The indestructable diamond—
Made from pressure, suffering,
Shaped by the love that never
Relents, the Spirit working in
Our Chests as He turns the
Coal of our hearts into the
Glistening imitation of Him.

I hope I have not been unkind,
Or muddled the world
With swine-like words.
Put my life on rewind;
Moonwalk my shoes
Back to the first time
I saw your eyes---
Uncertain, but kind
Did genuine disgust
Scare you away?
What can I say
To convince you
It was all a lie,
A scathing mask
Plastered on my face,
Always trying to dissuade
Unwelcome emotions
From broadcasting
Through the way
I say your name?

I stifled a sob.
         As if that would change
The volume of my grief.
         The despair pooling
Around me
     Was enough to alert
Those with the loss of hearing,
     Their hearts
Full of a sound they had
      Never heard,
But gripped
          With their hands,
Their memory,  
          In the loudest feeling.

My anxiety was a feverish creature
Haphazhardly thrown in a cardboard
Box, small holes poked on the sides
So its yowls could still permeate my
Heart.
I clutched it tightly to my chest,
The monster scratching at the walls,
And placed it at the feet of
The One who Cares.

When I look back on my words
In the suffocating dredges
Of night, thoughts as fallen stars
And eyes refusing to close,
I wish for nothing more
Than to feel Your presence
Filling the hollows of my room
And the ghastly shadows I had
Envisioned as looming figures—
A gold-brushed light bathing
My insomniac regrets with
The love that is perfect
And unfailing, no matter
How much I doubt.

There is always a moment
when I wish I didn’t feel
like prey at the bottom
Of the ocean.

Did I teach myself to breathe
underwater, sinking and never
Coming up for air,
watching the surface
Grow darker and darker—
cold satin on my skin,
A thin film over gills,
Knowing I would never
kick my legs, flail my arms
Was it I,
who put myself here?

A cold wind in tired eyes,
Tears that spoke
Into the quiet dark--
A conversation
Of the pain I refused
To share,
Finding its place below
Dormant window sills--
Steeped in tea,
Sludgy beneath the stars--
A walk home
To a place that was really
Only a house.

I was walking in high heels
I did not realize
Were no longer there.
When I leaned backward,
Expecting support,
I only met the cold ground.

The hours began to pass
Like strawberry jam
On sourdough toast
In the morning.

Silk-thin pages flapping
In the gentle wind,

Birds of God’s creation
Squawking above.

The sun seeped through
The clouds like honey,
Droplets of joy, of

God’s presence.

Breathe in, breathe out,
The revival of the soul,
Hours gained as I
Rest in my Lord.

The word warbled
In my throat.
m a y b e. . .
I knew I could
Not make it work.
s o  w h y
Didn’t I just
Say no?

She was a torn tapestry,
A picture of indecision
As her life hang
In the balance—
A decorative plate,
Watching itself shatter
In the dormant hallway—

The sky was mottled paper,
Littered with the tear stains
Of stars.

I sat in a field of feathers,
Made from loved quills
And promises.

When I said fly me to the
Moon, I meant take me there
With your words.

The sharp corners of stairs,
A valley of ups and downs,
Housing a river of tears—
My struggles swelled at my
Ankles, slowly trying to rise.
If I did not climb forward,
Upward, towards my Father,
I would be drowned by this
World, caught in the Death
He had defeated on an old,
Waterlogged cross for the
Redemption of our souls.

Look at the time,
Its right on your wrist--
How could you have missed
That one little moment?
It seemed so very big
But to you,
I’m only a showman--
With nothing but lists
Of commands
And tired jazz hands

She never met his eyes.
it was not intentional,
Yet she knew it was not right.
Perhaps she was afraid
That once he saw the trellis
To her mind, he would climb inside
and realize she was a fraud.

The sharp corners of a door frame,
A body of hesitancy,
The tip of a shoe teetering,
Head caught in the claws of direction.
One wrong step,
And the corners curve,
Becoming an elegant arch,
A glance and a head tilt,
Wondering the source of fear preceding,
Blinded by internalization.
Clarity comes from recognizing
The extended hand
Beckoning from one side of decision.

Back slouched over,
Legs in a V,
Eyes blurring grass
Into a murky green.
Feeling *****
And used,
Sitting in the season
I was too worn out
To enjoy.

The timetable was slanted,
Askew in the dusty light.
No one had checked in,
Nor out, in years.
What was that sound,
That beating of the walls?
I stood in my empty heart.

A slow elevator and a full panel
Of glowing, numbered buttons—
I wait patiently, tapping my foot,
Smiling cordially as body after
Body enters the slicing doors,
Making it warmer, stuffier. 

My lungs fill slower as itchy

Fabric stands next to me,
(Awkward silence and futile
Attempts at small talk,)
But when my floor finally

Flashes above with a ding,
I cannot make it through
The throng of tentative
Hand gestures and pressed
Bodies—My arm barely slips
Through a gap, and I think
That my fingers will stop
The doors from closing--
But they only jam on my
Bones, crunching the knuckles
Before descending further,
Dragging my broken flesh
And screams lower and lower. 

Only then do the bodies shrink
Back against the walls,
Giving me space to fall to
My knees, gasping at the pain
And the dormant button of the
Floor to my missed exit.

You never did say

Those words
Your eyes implied.
I heard them
In my head, all lies.