with all the fire bursting within?
will it make sense?
will anyone listen?

with all the rockets,
fading,
with all the roar and wild and the wind
roaring here, in my roaring heart,
in the boat in this storm of a mind,
rocked,
this rocket ship,
will it fade?
Where will it go?

I am fire
I am burning,
not in passion but in thoughts
riling and riding my mind like a bull,
like a the storm that made the disciples run amok
here and there, screaming, at the edge of losing their lives

and Jesus is sleeping.
hasn't taught me how,
or I haven't learned yet.

That's probably it.

The art of resting
in the midst of the thunder,
lying in bed as the sky cracks and breaks into pieces

the art of slumber, of peace, of contentedness and gratefulness
is an art I need.

Heart wallows,
wears, to the bone,
tired.

sagged lungs

and my soul no longer stirs
no "stillness" in peace,
but in numbness

and the bottom tastes like nothing,
it's all a great nothing.

yet I know,
weary arm can hold
can raise itself to the end of the tunnel

I know I'll be okay.
Your promise waits.

heart, air balloon,
the warmth of your presence,
fills me, raises me.

I am not defined
by the "i love yous" I never got.
or the ones that were taken away,
or the ones that were never meant.

I am not these mistakes,
not these storms,

I'm not the bent palm tree
the debris
of the hurricane.

But I am what I am,
a daughter, a child,
broken, bruised, beaten,
but not defeated,
alive.

I am here.
I am okay.
I am with You.

I will rise, I will not fall,
not any further.

And if I do,
your hands, Father,
hold

my wallowing heart,
my weariness.

I am not defeated,
though I am beaten.

You will raise me still,
your hands will hold,
this I trust, Lord.

Your hands will hold.

See it fall
gradually, the heart
breaks.

and what do you do with the pieces?
Fragments like broken glass
Each reflecting a memory I need to let go of,
These indifferent memories
ache.

I do nothing but sit on bed and
Feel.
And it hurts.
And it hurts.

Alright, there it is. He likes her.
The confident,
The blonde--

I drink.
Alone, dwelling on how blotted
I am.

I was art to him,
wanted
I was the sketch on his journals

And I didnt want to see it
end
I didnt want to see him move on
find someone new, "I don't want to be there for that,"
she said about her ex,
and I could also say that
to him.

Cheers to this heart,
I'm broken and wallow
In the shadow of
her voice, her hair, herself

Blotted.

So if I look at a star-struck night, or a dim one here in Fredericton,
If I walk these silent streets and think of the hum in the stillness,
may I think of You, Breather, Your heart beating and gentle hand.
How am I still here?
When I think of the 'big' world there is and my insides knot with ambition,
And I turn to look for adventure, magic, for something different,
may I realize there's Your gaze draping everything,
with beauty, cognition.

To know the dew that sprinkles over this life,
comes from Your love, Your own existence–
may this earth and all that comes alive raise its voice to say,

Jesus,

be glorified, forever and ever,
Amen.

Can't fix like You do.

to think I can heal,
is proud.

come,
please,

help me let go
and go
grip Your hand

not these old
shards of mine.

Wounds that bleed for years
are silent.
Only underneath this band-aid
you'll hear howling dogs.

She doesn't know,
she never will--
how this wound still bleeds,

how her naive knife just

sinks,
deep.