Holy Holy is The Lord God almighty
We stand together to sing His praise
You say you love Him, but to me I'm amazed
That you can Love God but sin against your brother,
and remain totally unphased
I can write essays about how you sit and dispraise
the opinions of  your brothers and sisters
Or sit silently with uncomfortability in your gaze
Your lack of care to the matter is unsettling, it begins to abrase
at my love for you all, it sets me ablaze
The Lord you love spoke to the woman at the well
but when you talk to me, I don't always feel as if you mean well
I'm not calling you a racist, but your uncomfortability shows
That you want diversity, without discussing adversitiy
or seeing that still the cold winds of your ancestors blows
You hide behind the politics of your mom and your dad
Trump got elected, you couldn't say you were glad
Because people in your fellowship hurt, and that's always bad
but at home there's excitement, tax dollars to be had.
you hide behind your politics. I hide behind my God,
you hide behind your privilege, I will call you a fraud
I am hungry, didn't feed me
Chained, you didn't free me
But you serve a God of the oppressed
I am thankful that He won't say that you didn't see me.

Take your bucket
Shiny and new,
Over to the spicket.
Now,
Try and turn it on,
Get all the water
You can
Sometimes,
It’s going to be
A nice stream
Other times
Drops,
If anything.
Now,
Don’t be alarmed
We’ve all been there.
Now,
Sometimes,
You can’t bring yourself
To carry the bucket
So take a rag,
Wet it all you’re willing
Back to the bucket
Squeeze in what you can
Rinse
Repeat
Until
Satisfaction.
Sometimes,
There will be too much water
All at once
The bucket
Will fill
Will overflow
Will spill.

Take a breath,
In
Out
Take a step back
Reclaim
The situation
Make the bucket
Yours again.
It’s only a bucket afterall
Right?

My advice?
Don’t show off
The bucket
It’s yours
Only yours
And no one else cares.

What they care about?
How you use the bucket.
To nourish
Or
To horde.

I am me
As you are you

I like to argue
I argue too loud
I don’t care what others think
I care too much
Sometimes the dark still scares me
The Alzheimer’s really scares me
I don’t talk in class enough
I want to talk in class enough
I want to write to write
I want to write for fame
I want to be alone
I never want to be left alone
I want to want
I want to be wanted
Life’s possibilities blows my mind
Life scares me
I’m slowly learning more about me
I don’t know him in the mirror

There is a bullet in a box of crayons with really strange names like Parkland Perrywinkle, Sandy Hook Sanguine, and Great Mills Green in a place where children play Russian Roulette with their school supplies when they reach in to grab one and they’ve been learning about probability this week Forrest Gump will tell them you never know if you’re going to finish the lesson or turn into a statistic my sister likes to create mosaics by putting a hairdryer to crayons melting cascades of wax down a blank page sometimes she reaches in and it’s the one lead crayon at the top of the page and it’s only one color that seeps down into the crevices of the cafeteria’s tile floor that proceeds to wash away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers washes away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers I see another child reach into the box and I write another word problem I write another word problem: “Zoey reaches into a box of crayons. What is the likelihood she will not get to hang her drawing up on her kitchen refrigerator? What is the likelihood her funeral photo will hang there instead?” Draw students’ attention to the key word “likelihood.” Tell students This word shows that the question is asking whether or not you will live to tell your parents how your day at school was. and I wonder when school desks will take the shape of caskets in a place where both screams of laughter and screams of terror
are permitted

I wish I could make you feel all I smell and see
When the sun shines through the tall grass in a Southern Maryland breeze
When field flies hover in the golden, fading sunset, suspended in their wandering
When crickets and croakers sing their evening songs, humming along to the universal sound
When twilight fades to startlight where city lights fade to black
When love is planted and pruned in rolling rows of farmland
When new seeds sprout of a life worth falling and staying in love with
When the pages of history are not simply learned, but lived
When a small boat's sail first fully fills with a westward wind and leaves the dock in it's wake
When children come in from play to mothers and fathers, smelling sweet of sweat and sunshine
When sand, soil, shells, and stones pave paths for the bold and barefoot
When brackish water breezes stick to skin like kisses and tans and waves on the shoreline
When Spring fades into Summer, and early May silently yet steadily stretches in her seasonal tension of the in-between
I wish I could make you feel this.
|b.g.|

I hope it rains the day they bury you six feet deep.
I hope it pours, so no one can see my tears as they stain the ground.
I hope there's thunder so no one can hear my heart shattering and the sobs that shake me.
I hope there are clouds blocking out the sun as a reminder that you were our Ray of light, now forever gone.
I hope it rains.
I hope it rains so I don't have to look at a perfectly beautiful day and not have you to share it with.
I hope it rains.