Lord, why am I not satisfied?
Why do I seek on earth
what You have promised I'll find above?
Is it because he's beautiful?
Is it because I hear his voice,
and not Yours?
Is it because I've seen his love for children,
even though you've claimed all humanity as Your Own?

Why do I want him, and not You?

Why can I not tear my eyes away
when I know I could be missing You?
Even if he were mine,
I wouldn't be loved perfectly.
A part of me would still be empty
because he's just a man.
A beautiful, loving, wonderful man,
but a man all the same.

I've asked You to take my heart,
my desires, my thirst for his love
and throw it away
unless You want this to be.
But does my desire to be fulfilled
block Your access to my heart?
Does my wish that these feelings
are meant to be in place
deafen me to Your call?

Lord, my beloved, my all in all,
You are what I crave.
You are the one I desire.
I can't say, “I don't want You enough,”
because it's a lie from the pits below.
But I do guard myself from Your love.
I hide behind my lofty dreams
when You want to carry me above them.

I don't know Your plans.
You may want us to unite.
You may want me for Your Own.
You may have someone entirely
different set aside for me to love.
I want to want what You want for me.
Guide me through the garden.
Walk with me through the valley.
I believe;
now help me to be satisfied.

an unspoken word
for every hole
drilled in the core
of held beliefs

red-hot mantle
cools by degree
losing its fluidity
silver surface thin

molten river beneath
restless currents
roil and boil
mixing strata

we become
bitter metal
iron hardening
under pressure

Am I lovely?
I know I'm loved,
I'm lovable,
I'm loving.
But am I lovely?
Am I delightful?
Am I truly cherished?
If not now, will I ever be?
Will anyone ever call me Their Love,
Their Delight,
Their Cherished One?
Will I ever be found in Your heart?
Am I what anyone will pursue?
Will anyone fight for me?
Will anyone feel like a man
by being with me?

Jesus, am I lovely?
Will I ever be the princess,
will I be a part of the narrative?
Will my beauty ever be unveiled?
Will anyone ever want to know my heart?

I know I’m not too much,
I know I’m more than enough,
but am I lovely?

What was it like in your garden, Lord?
Untouched by sin,
innocence in the very air we breathed,
the water we drank,
the soil you created us from.
You created us from the ground up,
from the side of another,
to be beside one another.

How did we live in your garden, Lord?
We were children.
You held our hand
we laughed, we talked, we played with you
created for you
your waters bathed us when we were soiled.
We soiled everything
we were misled
this led to our downfall.

How did he enter your garden, Lord?
Was this meant to be a sanctuary,
were we to be wary?
We knew and ignored
we were bored
we were children
knowing neither of good nor evil,
wanting to be like you.
He made us
You made us
and yet we chose wrong.

Were we to hide in your garden, Lord?
You knew every inch of it
you knew something was different
did regret once cross our minds?
Did we know what we had done?
We became undone
once naked without shame
we put the blame on each other
desperate for cover

We were banished from your garden, Lord,
now ravaged by sin.
Pain echoes within
without you by our side.
Father and Mother
bore brother and brother
uncover the damage done
by the eldest son
am I my brother’s keeper?
Deeper, deeper in debt we grew,
the wages of sin a tab on humanity
this insanity did not end with us.
    
Would this have happened in your garden, Lord?
Can we ever return to your garden, Lord?

I’ve always cried in secret.
Not by choice;
I just never seem to be noticed
when my heart breaks,
my body quakes,
my resolve is torn asunder.
I never receive the pity
I feel I deserve.
With a twisted face
and clenched fists
I try to hold back
unsightly sobs and gasps for air.

I’m never noticed,
but maybe it’s better that way.
Brokenness is ugly,
and my shards are jagged.

You’re no stranger to this.
They see Your Crown,
Your Side,
Your Hands and Feet.
But people forget
that You carried the Cross
that bore Your Body for hours on end.
They forget
that the Flesh was torn
and every step dug deeper
into Your Shoulder.
They whipped You,
they beat You,
they spat and ridiculed
But the pain of the Cross was constant.
There was no relief
from lifting and dragging
that torturous wood.
Dislocated and raw,
how can they not remember
the deepest Wound of all?

Is that why You gave me
my Wound, Lord?
Is it because I know
how it feels to have pain
not easily recognized?

Let me kiss your Wound, Lord.
Let me clean it and hold it
to my own.
Let me endure my pain
as You did:
with grace and compassion
with strength and integrity
Let me bear my Cross
as You bore Yours.

You know what *****?
The fact that I know I'm objectifying you.
I'm fully aware.
In my mind and in my heart
I've treated you poorly.
I feel myself craving a kiss,
a sigh,
a stolen moment of intimacy.
I find myself desiring your gaze,
your attention,
your requited longing.
But all I've stolen is your humanity.
All I've taken is your image,
the idea of you,
and turned you into a toy.
I've projected my physical and emotional deficiencies
onto what little love we share.
I'm sorry.
You're my friend.
You're my brother.
You deserve more
than to be lusted after.
You deserve more
than to become the target of my misguided desires.
You deserve more
than what I've been doing to you
and I'm sorry.

Daughter, you are enough.
I did not make you with
overabundance or deficiency.
Why do you treat yourself
like you're too much?
Why do you tell yourself
you're not sufficient?

You, who buried yourself
in anger, in loathing,
in misguided insecurities:
I am drawing you out
like a shoot from the earth.
Be patient. Be present.
You're still growing into
the darling flower you are meant to be.
You burst forth in colorful laughter,
in song and in dance,
painting the world with your presence.
Your body stretches toward the sky,
reaching for the Son with everything you have.
A mouthful of crooked teeth
is all the more beautiful
as you bask in the glory of existence.

My wildflower,
I did not create you to uproot yourself,
to hide under the moss or the shrub.
I made your form bold and stark,
unmistakable in My garden.
I made you a captivating blossom,
meant to flourish under My touch.

So dance in the wind.
Sing to the heavens.
Laugh with the birds and the beasts,
for you are Mine.
You are cherished.
You are enough.

How can I dare to lift my pen and try to capture
what Your own hand has created?
You, who danced on the waters
when there was naught
Yet You lacked nothing
in Your perfection.

How can my brush hope to portray
that which Your own hand has designed?
You, who formed the heavens and the earth
Who pushed waters from waters,
mountains from valleys,
light from darkness,
and said “It is good.”

How can my voice hope to sing
of that which You spoke into existence?
You, who breathed life into the stars,
the waters,
the earth and sky alike
Whose laughter bellowed through the cosmos
and delighted in the simplest wonders,
the most intricate marvels,
joyous all the while.

The only portrait I can cultivate
while doing Your creation justice
is myself.
I, whom Your own hand has crafted,
whom You Yourself breathed life into
every fiber of existence I call my own
I, who bear Your image
Your mark
I am all I can offer
for it is what You have given me.

And You say “It is very good,”
for this is all You desire.

I had a dream once
You were driving, your last love in the front seat.
I sat in the middle.
Your hair looked different.
Suddenly you met across the armrests
and I had to watch as you kissed passionately,
speeding down the interstate,
totally engrossed in her lips.
I woke up:
chest pounding,
face flushed,
heartbroken.
But it wasn't real.

I had a dream once
We were in a room with a congregation
They began to pray for a fallen Knight
who passed away two years ago.
I bowed my head.
Suddenly I felt your hand on mine.
Your head was low,
you didn't look at me,
but you grasped me like a lifeline.
I placed my hand on top of yours,
and you covered that one as well,
more relaxed but still distraught.
We held each other.
We prayed together.
I woke up:
chest pounding,
face flushed,
heart swelling.
But it wasn't real.

All sorrow is perpendicular occurring
at right angles of tragedy encircling
the grief-stricken with straight edges
only once intersecting across infinite planes—

Don't dare draw the lines between points
or shade the region with limits or curves
because the trajectories of bullets are plotted
on branes intolerant of slightest triangulation

Woe unto the seekers of sine waves
sobbing thinking of filling every trough
believing surely by now we've offered enough
to sate these bloodthirsty Euclidean demons

Cresting won't ever arrive in this course
filled to the brim with asymptotes, cold corollaries
but never spilling over under our sacred
pledge of allegiance to the 2nd Parallel Postulate

No intersections can be admitted with thoughts
& prayers extending outward barely co-planar
serious public policy proposals axiomatic
insistence on the Nirvana Theorem or nothing

A set of all points remains, mutually exclusive
motionless and always incongruent clueless
about their own particular geometries
awaiting radical Pythagorean salvation

Some paradigm we’ve built here though!
Two hundred years of living polygonal hand
to elliptical mouth without tangential reflection
on the unproven flatness of humanspace.