Oh how the cursed ground
Opens before me
Ready to swallow the sins
By which my hands are bound
Though it is in my trespasses I hide
It is by Christ's salvation I am found
So though my flesh will perish
And return to the soil from which it came
My soul will live on
In the name which has claimed it as its own
Though flesh will join flesh
In that gaping pit
It is the breath of life which will transcend

Woe to the heart of the fallen man
Trying to pull himself up again
****** and bruised
He can't stand to lose
The eye of the Samaritan

There is hope in his outstretched hand
To calm the fears beaten in by the land
To dry the tears
Of the torturing years
And heal the wounds of the man

The scars reach down to the bone
The pain of a life lived alone
Laid out by
The tiring fight
He cries out in an agonized moan

There comes a force unknown
That lifts the man to his throne
On his trembling knees
By the mercy seat
The man is no longer alone

We sat there not knowing why or how. Though there was consciousness written on the signs in our hands, our hearts were devoid of the words. It had been too long. We had wept too much. Though we still bled, as all do, we didn’t bleed red, for red was human and we had transcended… descended… such a state.
No one had won. All had lost. We paid such a price to what needed to be done that everyone was left with such a human debt, a word that had come to define this day to day existence. Debt, we had spent all we had, borrowed from each other and now here we sit. Our cries remained unheard. We canaries in the mine shouted until we ran out of breath, and though we now lie dead, the miners are still digging up their riches remaining deaf to our cries.
Know that we tried. When the collapse comes, know that we screamed our loudest. Bled until there was none.

I am starting to fear that I am loving you to death
That the silent faith in this quiet embrace
Is pushing you the wrong way
I know that you waver with the passing days
But I can't find it in me to say
Or scream, or yell, or do what it would take
To make you even turn your gaze
To just see how you are so far away
I know where your path leads
Yet I stay silent
I mean I may share
A whisper here or there
But that is far from what you need
You need me to leave
To let my absence speak louder than the words I never said

I crave the silences that fill the air around me
Along with the solitude that usually accompanies it.
They are my friends.
They comfort me when the world starts to scream.
Sometimes I need them,
But too often solitude becomes loneliness
And the silences become deafening.
That is the true curse of an introvert.
Wanting to be alone but not wanting to be lonely.

Is God a man
I mean society sure seems to think he is
He holds us in his strong hands
Protects us from the pains of the land
But when did these traits become exclusively masculine
Can patterns of love be defined by gender
Can the glory of God not transcend our fear
Of not being able to understand
Not able to label
The one who made the land beneath us
He is strong and meek
knows both war and peace
So which traits make God a man
Since when did a creator become defined by the works of his hands
Why can't God be God
And man be man
He our savior
And us his servants

The artificially colored television set is playing "It's a Wonderful Life"
It is my fathers favorite, which isn't much of a surprise because I believe it's a fathers kind of movie. As George Bailey meets the girl who will one day be his wife he is a dream filled man.
Filled with ambition and enough money in his hand but he never reaches his dreams.
I remember I used to dislike it, the whole thing.
Even though we just watched it once a season for my father.
Truth is I didn't understand it, or probably more correctly I couldn't.
As a child, dreams seem as close as the moon
Which in our hope filled eyes is never that far, just a couple more summers away,
But those summers come and go and the moon seems to be running away
Staying just past our fingertips,
But as we are looking up we forget the ground
Forget the happiness that we have already found
And point at those who got a lot farther than we ever could
There comes a time when you have to look down
And find that you've been living the dream all along
I think that's what the movie means
Finding that reality will always be better than the dream
And I'm sure one day when I'm a father myself, it will be my favorite Christmas movie
And I'll make my kids begrudgingly watch it knowing that they can't understand
But one day they will
One day their dreams will escape their hand.
And when that happens they will still be able to look up and say it's a wonderful life.

She was resting her head on her inclined hand
Searching outside of the window for that slowly fading land
It was once so easy to recall on a whim
When she was that long gone idealistic kid
That place in which she could shape the clouds by hand
Paint the sky's with a gentle kiss
Holding civilians made of stuffing and cotton
Tied together by dandelion stems
Living in kingdoms built of sticks
Collected from the dark forest
That lay behind her childhood home
That land that was always close at hand to run to in times of pain
She slowly draws back from the clouded window pane
Only now realizing her loss
Yet in this moment her hand is disturbed from its rest
By the minuscule fingers of her little kid
A girl with hair glowing red
From the sun filtering through the chilled late August winds
In those eyes she saw it
The thing she thought she had lost
It wasn't as far as it seemed
That kingdom beyond the sea.

This is where I find myself
In a place completely new to me
And it seemed to happen
in a mere blink
I am lost
Dropped off
In a foreign land
With no means to find myself again
It's actually fairly tiring stumbling around like this
And I don't really have the hope
To maintain this illusion anymore
To seem like I know what I'm doing
To perform confidence
For the deserted landscape that surrounds me
That is why I must rest in the shadow of the cross
For there is no longer any lasting shade
All other landmarks have long ago faded away
Leaving me to bear the blunt force
Of the ever burning Sun
That is the last bit of hope I have left
A little mustard seed
But soon it will be replaced by a magnificent tree.

I want my last words to be remembered.
I want them to be so grandiose that it is like a gunshot through future generations.
I want it to reverberate beyond the time that my mortal coil is shed
And live on in the hearts of man
I want them to be cross stitched on the pillows that line retirement homes.
I want them to be the ashes from which a revolution is born
The fertile ground from which peace may grow.
I want them to be the muse that inspires creative thought.
I want to live vicariously through those few sentences that leave my mouth alongside my last breaths, but then I think better of it.
I want my last words to be a whisper,
I want them to barely make it past my lips.
I want them to sooth hatred and calm anger.
I want them to lull the aching soul.
I want them to point the way my spirit will leave.
To the father, who is waiting for me.

The lights go out. Darkness swallows me,
Then spits me out for I don't quite fill it's exquisite palate.

I keep your note in an old cigar box
Well maybe not, but wouldn't it be more poetic if I did.
Truth be told there isn't even a letter.
I mean I wish there was, I wish with all my heart
But there's not.
There are no words for me to pine over.
Or phrases for me to dissect what you meant.
No calligraphy to cause me to get nostalgic,
Remembering the good times
But that might be because there weren't really much of those either.
I wish that you were more.
I don't mean that in a mean way,
I don't really mean it in a good way either, but that's beside the point.
I wish you were more to me.
More than just a time I don't like thinking about,
Or a topic to avoid in polite conversation.
So, for the sake of the story, let's just say
I keep your note in an old cigar box

I'm sorry the clouds no longer spell your name
That the wind doesn't sing
An inspired symphony
That only we know is about you
I'm sorry that the spring
No longer blooms
Only to be graced by visions of you
That the grass no longer makes room
For your mid afternoon wanderings
Nor holds your form for hours after you move
I'm sorry that my touch can no longer perceive
The dreams behind your light blue eyes
And that I can no longer differentiate
Blonde hair from your once spectacular gold
But above all else
I'm sorry that though the storm hit us both
It was I who let go

What happens at the end
When we reach the last bend
When the hills and valleys spread
And become less drastic
When we flat line
When we have reached as high we could reach
And can only grasp
At slipping memories
Is that what we really call peace
That's what I'm told is at the end
We hammer R.I.P into the gravestones of our fallen friends
And leave flowers to aid in their sleep
I mean are we just the sum of our life
Because by myself I know
That I wouldn't add up to anything worth measuring
There is no greatness in me
I am a minuscule dot on a minuscule dot on just a small smear
Of what we call reality
So what is the use of a insignificant being such as me
Questioning the vastness of infinity
It's really absurd actually
I mean I'm not trying to be poor pitiful me
But I am literally nothing
In comparison to the almighty
And there isn't an ounce of greatness in me
That isn't from my king
So what happens at the end?
That's the real question
Some say we cease to be
We try to define life as
How  far our conscience minds can reach.
Then there's those who desperately
Wish that it is a dream
And cling to this fleeting hope till their knuckles turn white
They hope That this pain can't reach beyond the grave
But I am so afraid
That in the act of dreaming they are losing sight of the reality
That peace doesn't lie in the grave
Or carved in the eroding stones in the cemetery
But in the savior that took that stone of death
And rolled it away
That took everything separating us from him
And nailed it on that cross
So that we could run to him
That is what I believe is at the end
A loving father with arms outstretched wide
To embrace his prodigal son

I want to sing you to sleep
Underneath this dark sky that cradles us
Let these drifting notes lull you
And allow yourself to descend into the comforting embrace of the constellations
Let them dance across your eyes
And put on grand plays to enthrall your mind
Sink slowly as one falls in love
And lay lightly on the bed of light
Prepared for you on that etherial plane
Drift away to the words of this lullaby

The lines bleed onto the paper
Aligning themselves into words and pictures
Masterpieces standing ignorant
of their own beauty.

Pastels sitting on canvas
Being pushed around with a brush.
They form many different hues.
Mixing with deep purples and vivid blues
Painting such a sad story.
That whispers of pain and vain glory
The edges are tattered and torn to pieces
The canvas is severely moth eaten
But the artist loved it,
It is his life's work.
for many years it had been lost
Rotting and fading and falling apart
But He searched relentlessly
Turning over and rifling through everything.
Until he found it
His eyes brightened up
Despite its dismal look

It had lost hope of ever being beautiful
Of being dignified
Of ever bringing hope to somebody's eyes
But the artist whispered to that tattered canvas
You are so much more than all of these
you are my masterpiece

How do you start a poem
I've never quite understood
Should you slap the reader with a shout
I mean that literarily (don't actually slap someone)
Or tap them on the shoulder with kind words to get their attention
Should the lines rhyme
Or stand haphazard as confused thoughts
( I sure hope it's the latter)
Does it need a strong moral message
Or can it be random rambling
( again, hopefully the latter)
Is it meant to be free
Or ordered to fit a certain need
In the end I don't know if this is a poem
But it is what I meant for it to be

I am weird
There are parts of me that I should be embarrassed to show
Yet they still flow out
And the thing is I don't really care
For you to know
The parts of me that aren't exactly "socially-acceptable"
I'm obsessed with the cultures of the past
I'm in love with the Muppets and Fraggle Rock
My room is full of old disney records and cassettes
I will scream across a room and blame it on the person next to me
I'm addicted to being addicted
And as I say that I don't mean
That I'm addicted to any negative things
Rather I'm addicted to chocolate and coffee
To corny movies
To collecting everything
(Which, no matter how much it seems so, isn't hoarding)
I believe in the unseen
My faith in God is the core of my being
And I have a deep seated faith
That there is one person out there that is able to love me
For everything inside that no one else wants to see
And perhaps have their own oddities
That I can become obsessed with
And together we will fall into a form insanity
Deeper than the ones we currently hold to
A form more commonly known as love
And it will be awesome

Oh how the dark has closed around me
There was a time in which I would breathe it in
Let it flood my nose and drown my lips
Yet I have grown to hate the taste
It once was so sweet
Though it loomed like death it was as sweet as love
Now as the night has taken me as its own
I look in distaste at the cup that I hold
The coffee that I once held dear
Has long ago gotten cold

My beautiful sister
Don't ever let the world tell you that you are less
Anything less than the truly dazzling blessing you have been to me
Don't ever let someone convince you that you aren't good enough
Because you have always been more than enough to help in times of need
And don't ever let the weight of the world weigh you down
For I will always be there to lift you up
You are so much more than you would ever admit
So much more radiant than the mirror will ever be able to reflect
Stronger than all of the stones the world will throw at you
So next time someone tries to pull you down
Keep all of this in mind
You are truly beautiful
More so than I could ever describe.

O eternal father,
I lift my weary eyes to you, for you are the sustainer of my soul.
I come before you with the dirt of the ground permeating my clothes,
Yet you love me.
You accept me as one of your own
And allow me to approach the throne
Of you, my father.
It is truly an act of grace
For me, the worst of sinners, to enter this place.
The Holy of Holy's, where priests would get struck down
And their bodies pulled out by a rope,
And I am able to sit here and revel in your presence.
If eternity is a magnification of this
Then I can't comprehend how my soul will contain the joy
Of sitting with you as a child with his father
Listening to his booming voice
As we grow up we see our fathers as superheroes
Which is an understatement for you
You first allowed us to rebel
And then sacrificed part of yourself
To right our wrong
How could I ever deserve this.
How could I, the lowliest of creation
Deserve a relationship
With you, almighty God
I pray
That I will never allow this salvation to waste
In the grave
For you are the resurrection
I am so susceptible to the strikes of man
And would turn a blind eye to the glory I know
For the chase of the vain lust of the world
Lord, slay this part of me
As you laid your son on that cross in my stead
Don't allow me to go a day without reminding me of the sacrifice that was made
To pay
The debt that I made
In my rebellion to you
I worship you, the great I Am,
For in you I find the provider of my soul.

My mind swims when I see you
As I say "hi"
All intelligible thought leaves my mind
To only leave behind
Stick figure drawings of me and you
I mean that figuratively for given enough time
I would paint you a masterpiece
But this drawing was all I could muster for the sheer surprise
Of seeing you before my eyes
I try to regain myself and maintain my "suave" facade
Yet I find myself looking more like an awkward giraffe
I continue to jumble my words like a frustrating jigsaw puzzle
Also I'm pretty sure that my last sentence was in pig-Latin
I sprinkle in incorrect quotes from obscure 80's movies
And you still look at me with that unfazed look
A third party looking at my performance may have thought they were watching some sort of comedy routine and a poor one at that
I try to close my mouth to stop this mess
Yet my brain doesn't spare me such pity
I continue till I am sure that I have buried any chance of ever knowing you
Yet when I look up, I see a smile spread across your face

There is beauty in the clouds that fly by
There is hope in the poor mans eye
There is mystery in the sky
Because you placed it there

You sewed the night together
And set it apart from the day
You knit the land
To interweave with the waves
Being pulled by the moon you set in the sky
Being questioned by the gleam you put in the toddlers eye
You created curiosity
So we could search
And made a masterpiece
So we could find you, the maker of the stars
You are magnificent
In your grand splendor

There is now hope in my life
There is now light in my blinding night
There is now a sun in my clear sky
Because you placed it there

If today is a page
In the way
That time as a series of events was laid out
Formatted in the same way as a novel or epic
Would the things that happen in a moment be great enough to make the final edit
I'm afraid
That if someone were to read me like a book
They wouldn't make it past the small summary that lies on the inside
Or maybe they would just see my name
And think "I've read this before"
Lending my life story to the cynical thought of "that was predictable"
Or worse yet make a game
Of what is the next thing he'll say
That is all I can think of, because that is what I would do
Am I living in a way
That every moment you could look at and say
"Now this part is important"
That it would be impossible
To open up to the middle
And "get to the good part"
No, they would have to read every sentence
Not one unimportant in the scope of the ending
It's somehow easier to live life that way
As if you're an author
Trying to save every word
From the tyrant editor
Packing weight into every single page
One breath leading to the next
Leading your life up the steps
To the great tomorrow
Life was meant to lie on the lips of old men
To exist in the smoke of the pipes held in their hands
To pour from the mind to all those who would listen
Full of hero's and friends
That character that makes you laugh with every line he says
To be read to sons and grandsons as they lie in bed
Dreaming of the tomorrows and the stars overhead
Maybe today could be the part where they reach out their hand
And plead for you to tell it again
For it is their favorite part
Where the knight saves the damsel in distress
Or maybe when he merely decides to live again
Maybe today is the page where everything changes

She paints her face
With bright blues and greens
Wearing them out for the world to see
She strides down the streets
So proud of her masterpiece
But they hate it
They tell her that's not right
The colors are too happy and bright
So the next day she creates a palette
Of pastel hues and somber blues.
Yet they're still not satisfied
Those colors are not appealing to the eyes
And she believed their lies.
Her tears wash away all her failed tries
And she paints one more time.
She splatters grey on her cheeks
And paints her mouth black to hide the white of her teeth
She became what they wanted her to be
And for the rest of her life she wonders why can't I just be me

A young boy calls to his father
Longing for the comfort of his hands
To hang onto every word as if it was treasure
Just like what the pirates fought over in that distant land
That his dad often told him about
He looks to his mother
To calm the fears he had come to hold
And her soothing nature
Told him it was ok to let go
Let go of all the anxieties and worries he had picked up though the day
And all of the insecurities and names he gathered along the way
He knew that he was safe here
This resting place
Where he could be himself and not have to put up a face
This was his home in the loving embrace
Of his parents

I want to be
A figure on the tv
When I say that I don't mean
Like an actor or even someone that has a line
I just want to be filling the blank space
because that is where I thrive
In the blind spot of the eye
I'm there but not really
I exist but then not
I just want to be unseen
It makes you wonder if existence is within or rather perceived

Who is a poet?
What is poetry?
Does it bleed from the mouths
Of those oppressed by tyranny
Does it stick to the lips of lovers
Like freshly ripe strawberries
Does it lie in the lines of the workman's hands
Like the dirt of the freshly tilled land
Does it exist in the hearts of man
To be struck out, serenaded, or wizened
Does it seep from our fingertips
As a sap that heals our aching bones
When humanity is the illness
And suffering the symptom
Poetry is
The desperately sought after medicine

The smoke of the ashes darkens my already ebony lungs
A black that knows no bounds has settled on the desolate ground
Being what caused this plague in the first place
The sunrise no longer has meaning
With no hope for the day to come
For today will be the same as all preceding ones
So I sit
And I write
Because that is what I do
Yet I no longer write of beauty nor love
For both have been stifled by the oppression of such a complete eradication
Of all the things I once admired
The things that lined the pages of all my pieces
So as I sit and watch the smoke rise from my cup
Seeing others walk by enticed
By whatever is on their devices
I put down my pen and close my book
For there is no longer anything to write or romanticize
To admire
If there is no longer anyone to look

I have not the propensity for pride
For all possible paths I have taken, away from my God
All forbidden fruit I have tasted
With the requirement set I have fallen short time and time again
So now that I stand by his grace alone
May I not cast out those who falter where I once was
Rather show them the path laid out for me
To stand where I am today.

Sometimes it seems
That happiness is so far out of reach
I don't know where to start
It has become a quest
Yet I always find myself stumbling
The way I pursue this dream
Is quite obviously clumsy
Sometimes I wonder if I appear
More like a newborn deer
Rather than the confident lion
I try to emulate
Though standing strong was never my forte
And adventure foreign to me
I only now see the desire to be happy
I know it seems ridiculous
But the path ahead must be better than where I've been
So this is my quest
And I believe I see the best place to begin
At the end of your fingertips