For my 2016 writing project, I’ve decided to write a single line of poetry every day for an entire year. Below, is March’s poem. Enjoy!

A lust for travel.
Open road as religion.
Rubber and road offering redemption.

I couldn’t imagine anyone else by my side.
Attacking this world together.
We leave a mark everywhere we go.
Here is somewhere that once seemed like nowhere.
You are someone who once seemed like no one.

All is different now behind this wheel.
Everything and anything seems possible.

With vastness before us,
Space begins to open all around.
We are defining the world on our terms.
The stars hang above like a summer, revival canopy.
Here we are to receive a message;
A message to be shared far and wide,
As if from the mouth of God!

Your life is not your own.
It is meant to be shaped by experiences.
It is meant to be shared.
Make it a memorable one.

This road has an ending though.
Soon, the realness of life will return.
We do ourselves justice to remember this sense of freedom.
We do ourselves service to remember the love.
At times, it will be all that we have.
But it will always be what we need.
Just remember the open road.
Just be here in this moment.

you forget
you are a poet
and accidentally
make sense

What is this, Lord Jesus, that Thou shouldst make an end
Of all that I possess, and give Thyself to me?
So that there is nothing now to call my own
Save Thee; Thyself alone my treasure.
Taking all, Thou givest full measure of Thyself
With all things else eternal—
Things unlike the mouldly pelf by earth possessed.
But as to life and godliness, all things are mine
And in God's garments dressed I am;
With Thee, an heir to riches in the spheres divine.
Strange, I say, that suffering loss
I have so gained everything in getting
Me a friend who bore a cross.

                                         ~ Jim Elliot (1927-1956)

She lives in a world of lies and shattered pieces
Constantly telling herself that everything will work out
That it will be alright if she can just hold on
When she knows in her broken little soul
That the only thing that will mend is the hearts of those around her

Truly she knows how deadly her mind is to herself
The fake, comforting, band-aid thoughts that fill her with dread
Taking over when she's alone and crying
Those white lies that she almost believed in
The one she almost trusted, stabbing her in the back

The delicate rose inside of her withering away with dehydration
Life being ****** out, replaced by a poison of the worst kind
Doubts filling her head, clouding her judgement
Forcing her to do unforgivable things that she'll never forget
The thorn in her side pushing her again and again

They say you need to bleed to know you're alive
And although she has bled, she's still not sure
Wishing it was all just a nightmare, a lie of a dream
Again with the lies, she'll never get away
She runs and runs but they always follow her

All around her she sees the broken pieces of herself
Reflected back at her sobbing figure through cracked mirrors
Lighting bouncing off and hiding away
Hiding from the girl who sealed her own fate
The girl who knew what she was getting into but couldn't stop

The girl who is me
--

Remember when, as kids
We just ran and ran
For the sheer joy of it
For the rush of it
Dashing and racing to the next adventure
No time to waste
And energy to burn
Running and running
And never seeming to ache
Barely panting
Hardly sweating
And always ready
To run

And now I'm running to stand still

                           By Phil Roberts

Poet lives amongst people,
in the land of sadness and happiness, where they live,
he dresses up like them, speaks like them,
in their language he had to learn.
But when he is on his own, he speaks in own tongue
to not to forget it.
He speaks with the dead, he keeps in touch with them,
to make sure everything goes according to plan.

He is afraid to tell what he sees,
in case people put him down and disbelieve.
He forces himself to keep his mouth shut,
he knows the price. He can't just die,
he's on a mission. So carefully
he smuggles in the truth in his poetry.

These sad eyes and tired shoulders have make me weak with the promise of someday. The weight of the world is pressing down so tightly on my vision that I can’t see anything but the sun’s glare. And I am waiting so anxiously for the days to break and the river to warm so I can try to wash my dusty eyes and smooth my crumpled up soul so I never have to come back to four white walls and a picket fence.