Life seems darker as of late,
Is it the change of seasons,
Or have the rose-colored glasses fallen off my face?
I’m still not sure how many days I have left;
I’ve wanted to unhinge my jaw with a revolver for the past week and a half.
I ain’t no ghetto’s son,
I am a privileged white male,
Out the ***.
It’s ******, but it’s true.
I mean, sure, I grew up on a street with no lights on outside,
And I got a knife pulled on me in front of my house, but what’s that say about me or you?
I am a counter-cultural mess and a half.
That’s what it seems like, from my end of the teeter-totter.
I thought I was my father last night, but that bullet’s dodged… I ain’t have no daughters.
I feel like my prescriptions read “desperation”, and the puffs that I blow read “sloth”.
But I’m just doing what I can, being cut from the same cloth.

I write to pretend my words matter:
to feel significant in the rushings sounds
of our cacophonous symphony of car
horns and relative non-silence.

I've always desired to write like the Psalmists,
to give praise to the God who so loves me.

I seem to do better in light-hearted matters
and vulgarity.

But if I could write appropriately,
as if my words were even close to
the fullness of how much I mean them,
I'd say that I'd be nowhere without my true
Father.
The one who resides afar, but so near.
The omnipresent Triune God who loves me
more than I can stand to love myself.

(Notice how easily I make this about me, something I loathe.)

But my God, O God.
Your beauty is deeper than the ocean,
Your majesty stretches across the atmosphere;
nay, it stretches across the cosmos.
But a speck I am in Your glory
yet You love me all the same.
Yet You love me all the same.

The idea of You taking thought to create me,
with purpose no less,
blows my mind;
truthfully, my only hope
is to spread that love that you giveth me.

To reflect you.
To be a light unto others in Your name,
and yours alone.

Though my life feel like a desert,
You are an oasis.
Please fill my thirst.

I use periods as often as a pregnant woman
This is only true in prose
I guess, I want you to fit in these words
where you fit best

I write for me, but on a grander scale, for you
Yes, you, the one staring at these words
letting them soak into the creases of your cranial-matter
I've gotten past the membrane now

Now you're thinking
What the hell is he sinking
into this mind of mine
The answer is gibberish
always has been
almost always will be

I travel down hallways to capitalize properly
I burn the gardens of sincerity by striking the match of clarity
I even pricked my finger on a safety pin, once

I call this prose,
but who really knows
and who can clarify?
These are words
jumbled together
to form a mind-worm
I hope you're infected