Aren't we all just knocking
on open doors
I'm not home right now.
Try again later.

Trust is like a personality.
Broken, evenly.
You say, I trust everyone
but you.

I'm kind of split in judgement anyways.
But I can't keep up with who you're trying to be today.

Sin has undone our wretched race;
But Jesus has restored,
And brought the sinner face to face
With his forgiving Lord.

This we repeat from year to year
And press upon our youth;
Lord, give them an attentive ear,
Lord, save them by Thy truth!

Blessings upon the rising race!
Make this a happy hour,
According to Thy richest grace,
And thine Almighty power.

We feel for your unhappy state
(May you regard it too),
And would a while ourselves forget
To pour our prayer for you.

We see, though you perceive it not,
The approaching awful doom;
Oh tremble at the solemn thought,
And flee the wrath to come!

Dear Saviour, let this new-born year
Spread an alarm abroad;
And cry in every careless ear,
"Prepare to meet thy God!"

"sometimes, the poem has more friends than the poet."

And I kind of find it beautiful and I kind of find it sad
But at least the poet has his pen.
When all else has left
He can look across all these version of himself
Scattered on the floor,
Across all these pages.
Maybe that's why he writes,
To give tribute to all parts of himself,
All the damage he has endured,
Or maybe he just writes to feel less lonely,
Or he writes because he just has to,
Like one has to breathe.

Whatever the reason may be,
I'm kind of glad,
That when all else has left,
An artist still has his art,
And it may not be much,
But it's at least not nothing at all,
Maybe his works are a result of all his pain,
A consolation price for losing more than he has gained.

A pen might might not always be mightier than a sword,
But sometimes it's all you need to get through.

What if, the secrets and answers lie in me?
I love myself,
I find myself,
And become enough for my own self.
No heaviness, no sadness, no ambiguous questions, no self-inflicted madness, no what if's, no imagining scenarios, no feeding sugar to my thoughts, no harm in being alone with my feelings.
What if, I am my sole saviour?
I would have to do nothing but redeem myself, because I should, because it's the law of the jungle - I get my own prey, I am my own alpha wolf, I lead my own pack.



- LynnAA

to be you is to leave a life
painted with regret in twitchy
strokes that reveal unsteadiness
in every movement of the brush

i work in certainty more often
than not, seeing the colors before
they splatter on canvass, a predetermined
image fixed in my mind's eye

my palette has changed, no longer
faded and full of sadness, now there
is a luster to the tones splayed before me,
a freedom to the movements i make

i am becoming the you, the me, my
art had always dreamed it would one
day be, i am unveiling my greatest work
yet, effortlessly beautiful in it's simplicity

Doesn't life feel larger than all
Isn't life the best thing of all
And the hardest a condition gets is
Mere droplets to a waterfall
Over the past years and years that'll succeed
Neither had and nor will obstacles be rigid
Desire the most, defend the best
Diamond you are, unable to break.

In gravest, gravels of untouched soil,
Spearhead of purple, beyond the pale,
One statue of siege upon a windy foil,
What mires meek airs in all you survey?

Like a frost of summers, you are lord,
To hold that seed in your spiny face,
Depressions of land your promontory,
All up with arms, iron clad as a mace,

Beneath you, the grown motley fields
Are desolate, all flowers bled, blender,
Spiders and birds know you unyielding
The lost aleatory scent of no surrender.

My decisions grow, as moss grows. Slow, slow and unseen between the green-green of expected. My decisions grow, as moss grows. Quietly wild. Shallow threads clutched tight at the sheerness of possible- drinking light from the dark in order to thrive.

My decisions grow, as moss grows. Slow, slow and unseen. No branches, no forks, no watch-wait-and-see, just spores caught on a breeze when I need them.