If only the blind eyes were opened to Christ love for them here.
If only people would open their hearts to the true unconditional love.
If only the Church loved the way we were called to love the lost.
For I know that Christ called me to love others into the kingdom.
Not keep them out through judgment and hatred toward them.
For bas much as I mess up, how can I judge others whom mess up.
So all that I can do is love others and trust Christ in using this love.
To draw the lost to him using me as the vessel that reaches out to them.
For I know that only he can save anyone , only he can rescue them.

Perhaps the cost doesn't exceed the value . The prospects there where myriad . Where do you go to escape the elusive delusions of your psychic quandary ? The ramifications of inductive collusion make writing a chore which requires extrapolations in progressive dynamics . The allusions of paradoxical analogies multifaceted conjectures often have more depth than the hypothetical dynamic intentions can pervade . I too would like to get more out of the plausiblities of problematic diversity . What were you trying to accomplish ? The diversity of possibility makes self oriented interjection seem a pragmatic enigma to ourselves . To receive unity I must conceive the totality of my cognation . The dog was wearing its collar . The rhythms of logic may seem impractical although aesthetically pleasing . There are many ways to exercise the perplexing quagmires of psychic revelry . Since I don't have another outlet I must attempt to succeed through cognitive diligence . Their impetus was not clear . The whole picture was not necessary for the production of viable assumptions . I don't know whether to go or stay home . The dialectics of rational induction often seem almost visible . Psychology is not an empirical science . Transience may seem a convenient quality . The first matrix seemed similar to the third in the progression . If I could I would fashion a legitimate conjecture to help mitigate the discrepancies in these arguments . I find I have worries for my relative clarity in the midst of these almost catalytic litigations . The site for the new well was carefully mapped . I find it difficult to satisfy the dictates of my conscience . A lot of people are distressed by the estranged condition of their moral ethics . The clarity of criticism creates credibility , comprehension can cause conducive consciousness . Multifariously versatile obnoxiously obsessed protuberant demonstratively cajole deviant affectionate ****** caress. English is a colorfully diverse and versatile language . Parallel thoughts like parallel lines carry similar veins of reasoning in almost identical directions . The picture forming seemed to be a synthesis of the almost kaleidoscopic torrents of symbolical regalia . It's not convenience it's the spontaneity of intrinsic expedience which dictates . The light house stood out stark and ominous amidst the torrential rain and flashing lighting of the stormy weather .Anxiety is often caused by an accumulation of unresolved delusions . If the tone of that man's voice is any indication we are not going to have an easy time convincing him to give up his old records collection . Sometimes having something is not as exciting as you thought it would be before you owned it . The occasion was just another new moment in time . The mechanism was a miniature scale model of the larger machine . The man's perception of the situation appeared quite shallow and incomplete . Belief is a relative state that often lacks objective clarity . The monolithic precipice is probably not as steep as it looks . The heights of sanity are a lofty and precarious perch indeed . He was not conscious of the collaborations of his enemies clandestine collusions . The magnitude of the problem put it outside the realm of my perception . The angel was a vision of resplendent beauty as it hovered in mid air above the knoll . I don't think you understood what I meant . I sincerely ment what I said about the sorcerer . I will succeed through cognitive diligence . To say the state of mankind's metaphysique is an imaginary condition is a gross denial of evolutional principle . What then is the nature of problematic hypothesis , or the personification of positive prosthesis ? I don't mean to embarrass the perpetrators of theological indenture but perhaps this is not pragmatically aesthetic . The athlete carried the torch with grace and solemn devotion almost as if on a mystical sojourn . The quality of existence may not transcend the tenacious transience of time ; then again perhaps the exogamy of homogeny will produce the ultimate successor . Under our political system the privilege of freedom is inalienably granted to all unless abridged by due process of law . If you attempt to unlawfully abridge my freedom I will file a prejudice against you . I am more wholly concerned for my anonymity than I am with the ideology of your evangelist . I know I would rather be self sufficient than deterred by the ulterior motives of political impetus . Though I know I am is more than I may ever be I like to think I could . Through extrapolation one can enhance their vision of the realms of possibility .

I visit the old mill by the creek.  
It hasn't ground a grain in a century.
A ghost of wood and steel and history.
How it still stands is a local mystery.

I want to buy that old mill by the creek.
Rebuild it with glass walls facing the waterfall.
Use the water for electricity.
In the summer, when you visit me,

We'll swim in the pond, it'll be my own pool.
Sip beer on the rooftop, be rockstar cool.
In winter, we'll ice skate my frozen backyard
Before fireplace, whisky, snacks and cards.

I'll build you a guestroom on all three floors.
And secret rooms behind hidden doors.
The automn rains will pound at the wall  
And sing with the sound of the waterfall,

And the song will be that of the miller's ghost.
The house might be mine, but he's still the host.
He loves that his workplace has now become home.
For a hundred years, he's been there alone.  

He'll laugh with the kids of my visiting friends.
He'll dance with the women, and when the fun ends
He'll sit on the rooftop with a ghost cup of tea,
Walk by the willows and thank God for he

Who took the mill ruins and rendered them "home";  
A palace by water of wood, glass and stone.
I thinks of these things, when I visit that mill.
And thanks to my dreaming, it's standing there still.

A hunter is in my core, with an angry roar,
                   in to this forest I stray with a vengeance,
where ancient trees, serpentine vines,
                   with thick under growth tangle like ghosts in heat
and there in the dark center stands
                  the mysterious beast wearing a grotesque mask,
the heroic hunter can't wait any longer,
              **he removes the mask, I face me, the intrepid beast.

Wild child space travel gypsy
       drunk    on     the cosmos
     churning a sensual pattern--
             melting         suns
with a carefree wink
as stars pour into her eyes
like a garnet shiraz
       spiraling
              in    tidal   waves
splashing in a crystal wine glass
     caressing
              her white light lips.

Planets dip and dangle around her hips
as the weight of the nebulous nectar whispers
                                       lullabies to her eyes
         as her incandescent            hair contours
    to copious glistening constellations  
rippling across her tired body
                 like ice dripping on a warm chest
vibrating    indigo       moonlight         jazz
enrapturing millions with her simple act of symphonic yawning
as the dusk light dawning over faces
embraces souls stirring--
her purring hip cat dreams
leave people like us with mouths agape
as her voluptuousness nape hushes
us with a supernova explosion of peace
oscillating between
each of our spirits.

In a place that never existed anywhere,
leading a life that never ever happened
sparks of fire of wanton imagination,we are,
that will appear reflected in eternity's mirror
all these dreams are created by our illusory mind.

the birthing goddess
her body preparing for insemination
the richness pooled among her trenches.
bright red and hot. when she can no longer
contain
it explodes out
with a force we are always unprepared for.

She, our mother.
our creator. we molded in the fire of her womb.
She, our mother, fractionally recreates.
She, knows her purpose.
the crimson show is for no weak man,
men struggle to understand the power
in that core. they, too far removed from
their mothers hands. mother's lands remind us,
but we wear shoes for that.

today, I read that we all began as woman.
my body is the predecessor of my sons.
so invested in LOVE and creation,
she
gives up her organs for the balance of our time.
sacrifices the creative womb
to bring forth the solution. the balance.
she knows instinctively that
her womb
is the power of the center of our Earth.
is the power of the rapture of destruction
the force of the creation of LOVE.
she, our Mother.
like with all children, the farther you are from mom,
the less you remember her lessons.

she calls me to her bedside.
I enter the room, confidence birthing
as I near my Mother's side.
she embraces me, touches my soul
through other family members
and through LOVE.
she sacrifices her easy rotation,
her youthful spin, I feel the dizziness too now.
slowing down with conscious effort within
at my Mother's bedside, I shower her with LOVE,
compassion, tears, nutrition, beautiful flowers to smell,
all the things she taught me.
all the things she gives me.

our Mother Earth who LOVES
our fertile Father
our genetics, the subtleties.

the street lights are on…

do you here your Mother's call?

and the trees wonder
why
we have
such restless legs

After twenty years
I see it very clear
I picked the right girl
No others even close
I have the right to boast
She's so right for my world
I made the right choice
Two human hearts rejoice
That she became my fate
I'm glad I took the chance
To ask for that first dance
That we still celebrate

My killed love for you
I will inject
micro amounts into my heart
whenever I'm about to let someone in
to safeguard against ever
becoming sick like that again.

When he runs his hands together
It sounds like sandpaper
Waiting to shape raw wood
They're rough because life isn't always easy
But hard work makes it worth it

Because cost and value don't measure success
If he had nothing to own, he wouldn't be worth any less

On Saturdays, we watched the History Channel and ate donuts with forks
Sometimes my grandfather would tell me his tales

I learned about cooking
Always season it well and prepare a bit more
Because there's no telling who'll show up at your door

I learned about fire
Like life, it's relentless, but you always fight back

I learned about chivalry
It may be asleep, but it'll never die
Because opening doors, compliments, and hand-written notes can keep love alive

And I owe me to him
I am a man because he led my way
He brought me out of darkness
Without ever knowing he was the light

We built model airplanes from Balsa wood
And classic cars from plastic;
Our dreams are simply disassembled pieces
There's no rules or instruction
We can build whatever we want