I’ve questioned God’s existence,
His involvement,
His intent.
When things were’t going well
I used poetry
To vent.

Instead, though, I should offer praise
For the blessings
Given me!
And thank Him each and every day;
To better use
My poetry.

Thank You, God, for giving life,
To my family, friends, and
Me!
And for all the others in this world,
Though at times
We disagree.

Thank You, God, for giving strength
Though we are weak
Compared to You.
Help us, God, accept Your plan,
And do the best
That we can do.

Help us to open up our eyes
And see the beauty
All around.
Use our ears to listen closely
To the peace in
Nature’s sounds.

Help us to share the talents,
That You gave us,
Everyday,
And let us not be angry
When life doesn’t
Go our way.

I’ve sinned God, please forgive me
For You know I’ll
Sin again,
But when its time to call me Home
Please open Heaven’s door,
            Amen.
Phil Lindsey,  6/2/15

"I want to be a poet. That's the only thing I really want.
I want to find my own way of writing, my own style.
I know I haven't yet, but I am striving to do so.
How should I put it? It's very hard to explain.

I want to write in a way that they writing is me- is myself.  I want to write so that what I write and the way I write is me, because of the choice of words and the arrangement of the words, the way I combine them, group them together, orchestrate them. For me words are music as well as- as much as- they are meanings.
Writing is different from talk."

-Cordelia
This is All
Aidan Chambers

And she said,
"You'll get over it,"
when I told her
I'd be sad
if she took her own life.

Well, here I am.
Another year older

and I'm not over it.

Oh to be trending with
Praise never ending
For poems I’ve shared on this site.

Likes and reposts give me
Reason to boast -
Justify staying up through the night.

Notifications are
Cause for elation;
The judges DO like what I write!

But a poem too plain
Causes heartache and pain, and
Is often my poor poet’s plight.

No comments, no hearts,
Silence tears me apart
As the view numbers start to get high.

Doesn’t anyone care?
Is it cause for despair?
Don’t they know how hard that I try?

And who really can blame us?
Our desire to be famous
Is a standard set forth at our birth.

Though it’s narcissistic,
We allow some statistics
To define the extent of our worth.

When I group words together
My soul is the tether;
I am sharing a part of myself.

The peril I fear
Is that no one will hear
As the words gather dust on a shelf.

So when the words are ‘bout right
I choose to quit for the night,
Add some tags, then I hit save and send,

‘Cuz when all’s said and done
We’re just writing for fun,  
Who cares if the **** thing will trend!
PwL   March, 2015