I know nothing of writing or the art of poetry. I just break myself in my hands and let my heart trickle through the cracks and onto the page.

Your cruelty as a madman will
Not be unopposed any longer.
Sweltering swagger will be your
Undoing,
Sinking you to the bottom
Of the lake.

Ravens and rats and crows
Will feast on your heinous
Bones
Come undone and be unraveled.
Accept your punishment for crimes
Wicked and debased, born of your soul.

Every single tear of blood
        Cupped in Your scarred hands

Dear Abba,
    
      To spiritually photoshop, or not to spiritually photoshop: that is a recurring question. I’ve gotten pretty good at cropping and resizing to keep an impressive façade, but the emptiness behind it is the telling thing, telling me that something about the life I’m living is off the tracks. I’m not the biggest fan of mirrors but I realize they do serve a purpose: showing me the reality, the real me. I’m a ragamuffin, always have been, and yet You love me, the real me. Amazing.

Lord, our Lord,
    how majestic is your name in all the earth!
You have set your glory
    in the heavens.
   Through the praise of children and infants
    you have established a stronghold against your enemies,
    to silence the foe and the avenger.
   When I consider your heavens,
    the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
    which you have set in place,
    what is mankind that you are mindful of them,
    human beings that you care for them?
    You have made them a little lower than the angels
    and crowned them with glory and honor.
You made them rulers over the works of your hands;
    you put everything under their feet:
    all flocks and herds,
    and the animals of the wild,
    the birds in the sky,
    and the fish in the sea,
    all that swim the paths of the seas.
Lord, our Lord,
    how majestic is your name in all the earth!