nobody understands,
nobody understands,
the loneliness of those
who are praying for warm clothes,
who are them?
just God knows.
the terrible pain they are suffering,
only praying can help them.

Fall is the perfect season
with enough sunshine
leaves dropping down
trees changing colors
changes in our lives
with the elections
coming
with approaching winter
please O God
make it "changes for the good..."

Jesus had a huge supper, with large amounts of uppers
*******, amphetamines & methamphetamine
The aliens from our future planet came to visit him on this special day
They offered him food, drink & loads of drugs
Most disciples were upset with this and walked out
A few stayed for the debauchery
There were also punks, metal heads, hip artists and free thinkers at this gathering
Such unity, democracy, in one social gathering
The image I included here is the original Leonardo da Vinci painting that showcased what was really happening during the last supper
He censored the original painting because the church/government demanded it
If it wasn't, Da Vinci would've been executed  
The church could not afford such blasphemy to be exposed throughout Italy & the rest of Europe
Known for being a user of uppers, Da Vinci realized that he could not destroy this original painting
The last upper had 13 guests
Just like the last supper, which also had 13 guests
This occurred on Friday the 13th
How does Da Vinci know these actual events were true
Da Vinci was there
He's the alien offering Jesus a line of coke
da Vinci was born in the year 5000
His real name is SK47@-+VA29
He traveled back in time and made a name for himself
Changed his appearance countless times
Fast forward 500 plus years later
He's still alive somewhere out there in our vast solar system
Jesus OD'd for your sins
He didn't realize how much blow he could snort & how much amphetamines he could swallow
There was no doctor in the house
If he survived, he would have been an outstanding carpenter

I scream out to god
Expecting an echo back
Lonely summer night

Fall, fall
Fall into your own divinity
Seep into the sacredness of your soul
Your cells are dancing with the universe
Particles of you entangle with the creator
Release those tears
They are cleansing the energy of worlds
This moment is alchemy
When you connect with the supreme
You’re feeling your own majesty
Fall, fall
There is nowhere to fall
But home

Because Jesus lived I …
Am forgiven
Have hope
Can face tomorrow
Am made new
Can love freely
Have peace in my heart
Am not afraid
Can trust god’s plan
Am alive in Christ
Have a future
Am set free
Have strength to carry on
Know I am loved
Am a child of god
Have a purpose
Can forgive others
Am no longer defined by my past
Belong
Can rejoice
Can walk in freedom
Am healed
Can live without shame
Can face my fears
Can live with joy
Am being transformed

I was supposed to be somewhere holy by now.
Twenty-eight, maybe.
Soft-eyed, loose-shouldered,
eating cherries on a porch that faces west,
“I trust the sky not to drop me.”
“I haven’t wished on a coin in months.”
Instead, I’m awake at 3:47 a.m.
Googling “What does it mean to feel inside-out?”

I keep finding pieces of myself
in weird places—
a sandal from eighth grade
in my mom’s basement—
a song I skipped for years
until it wrecked me—
now it’s the only sound I can breathe to.
A fourth grade diary entry
that ends with:
“I think something’s wrong with the air.”

I think something’s wrong with the air.

I was so sure by now I’d
quit making altars out of absence,
retire from bleeding for the line break,
know how to hold still when people love me.

I thought I’d hear God more clearly
and panic less when I don’t.
I thought I’d be done
being undone
by
a read receipt.

/ Then the break. /

And yet.

I flinch at compliments
like they’re coming from behind me.

Sometimes I still check
if my name’s spelled right on things.
I still rehearse
what I’ll say in case I’m asked,
“So, what do you do?”

(I become.
I break and unbreak.
I drink soda in bed and call that healing.
I make it to morning and call that enough.)
I keep living like the soft things won’t leave.

There’s a version of me
who doesn’t bend into a wishbone
for every boy with a god complex—
and a version
who flosses because she thinks she’ll live
long enough
for it to matter.

There’s a version who never had to explain
the scars on her thigh.
A version who didn’t stay
just to see how bad it could get.

I keep dreaming of her.
Not to compete—
just to confess.
Not to ask forgiveness—
to give it.

She sleeps through the night and means it.
She makes plans and keeps them.
She doesn’t exist.

So I just keep writing toward something
I’m not sure I’ll survive.
There’s a version of me
who didn’t touch the red button.
Didn’t ask.
Didn’t hope.
Didn’t write any of this down.