How can losing any part of ourselves bring us down to our knees so quickly and with so much force? As if the laws of gravity hold true not only for the tangible, but for the intangible as well.

We seem to believe that "losing" or "lacking" only means that something is taken away from us. We forget that when a part of ourselves is ripped away, more of those parts grow back stronger and heavier. Just as our muscles are torn and repaired, our souls work the same way.

You may think you're lacking-- but in truth, you're getting stronger.

It is
frightening
to think
that

my lack
of confidence
will
surely

be
The End
of
me

There are times when writings is useless.
When the similes go on for too long like when the ocean merges with the sky and your eyes cannot the define the boundary between each crystalline blue and it is almost sublime because there is no end or no beginning and that is what I think of you. Infinite

There are times when art is not enough.
Like those times I cannot make the right mixture of the hue of that lovely tint in your eyes and, of course, not matter how many times I trace you in the canvas those lips like rose petals will never move and say "Me too."

There are times when music is lacking.
How you remind me of a melody each and every single time I see you and despite trying to trap the melody in these useless music sheets nothing comes but a few missing music notes that birds and composers have not and will not fathom.

But if I could write you down in paper,
I'd let the words scramble away once more because the free verse of your world intrigues me further more than finite verses on washed out paper.

If I could paint your essence,
Life would be a monochrome film,no more technicolour, no more blushing cheeks. I like you much more in this everlasting landscape where you can dye the world a million colours and still search forevermore

If I could play you in to melody,
The poor birds would be envious and the world would be a quiet place without composers able to eclipse that lovely song of yours. And yet, I love this cacophonous world in which everyone is deaf to you but I who can discern such a faint, dainty tune.

There are those times, you know?
When I know I'm not good enough but if I could, I still would not.

The revolving doors of strife
are in opposition to peace;
unfulfilled desires of lust,
burning with envy and anger,
offers no one any release…

to those personal conflicts.
Wanting stuff with wrong purposes
for selfish pleasures of life,
will result in spiritual confusion-
more so than a three-ring circus.

Insecurities of deceitful hearts
can generate disastrous events,
with life spinning out of control;
His grace will teach us to overcome,
when we earnestly choose to repent.

Turn away from disloyalty towards God;
don’t speak evil of others around you.
Grace, the power of the Holy Spirit,
has the ability to teach us humility-
Remain in the Light of His purview.

Life remains chaotic, out of balance,
unless we defeat the evil tendencies
that are resident within human nature;
we can be more than conquerors when…
recognizing our inner dependencies

of needing God first and foremost.
We’re to be separate from the World;
He’s protective of us with His jealousy
with healthy hopes from Him alone,
as His precious boys and girls.
.
.
.
Author Notes

Loosely based on:
Jam 4; Psa 34:7; Jer 17:9

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
  
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.

fortunate dreams, folded within security and affluence
a laundry pile of capital
you’ve tried and succeeded
prosperity, wealth, Constitutional rights in abundance
American dreams lay thriving, slithering between your fingers like sludge
nice sludge though
snow crystals rest upon the sludge, decorating it for the holidays

barren attempts to take hold of opportunities, you didn’t really try
efforts lay unmade, like the bed he shared with you
penniless
inferior in the corner of the kitchen
last night’s events crawling across the tile towards you
running over stains and chips, creating unshaped perfect squares
a city on fire; flames stumbling in the breezes

A man (why is it always a man)
Stands over me advising me where to go
What to do
Not do

The man is always alone

How to talk of such things
When suitable words make a game of hiding;
verbs and adjectives are not rich enough in describing?

How to speak of such things
When a brittle voice trembles in the mentioning,
Tongue tied trickery trips every uttering,
While throat clench tightly trapping sentences to the point of suffocating?

Who to hear of such things
When guttural grunts are all that come crashing
and gasping breaths are too weak for their releasing
While listeners impatiently tilt heads from my scratchy stuttering?

Who to read of such things,
When the vagueness of text can't hold true meaning
and impulsive eyes leave print that is boring,
When you can't fault the font because it is indifferent to what you are attempting?

All the while the essence of a poem is slipping,
opportunity to grasp it is fading
and inspiration waning
The moment wilting
efforts are dying.

I put words in to rhymes
and I call it poetry
my mind on paper
to help keep my sanity.
You may not like my poems
think they're basic and lacking
but my words are my art
from my heart that is cracking.
If you read through my soul
and find that you can relate
that's all I can ask for
from poets so great.
So give me critiques
cut my words down to size
make them bleed out
the feelings inside.
Help me, don't hurt me
just give me your wisdom
show me how to grow
and I'll feed off your criticism.

Structure.

Stability.

Rigidity.

Critical view.

Thoroughness.

Totality.

Honesty.