'The biggest problem with communication is that we don’t listen to understand, we listen to respond.'

You trace my bottomless eyes to the pit of my stomach
You stare at the tip of my tongue,
With that sordid tang on it;
Reassure me now,
I am not the cause of it.

Taste, but not too late
The stuff of which
I am made.
Never think
I would clean the bottom
Piety of your sink

Would you hear me?
Muffled in a crowd?
Where my delusions
Of your confusions
Are shrouded

I smell repugnance
And make nothing of it
O the fancies of tongues
Bowed, I make nothing of it
In the crowd I hear your sound
I make nothing of it
My rejoinder blaring loud
You make nothing of it

The boil of the grey water
Murky glasses unclean -
Silent unorderly

I make a run for it.

There's this thing about worship
that I often forget.

You see it's not just this thing
that we do on Sunday.
It's every day;
Every breath and movement of our hands
is done because we understand
that God's grace is not a prize we won.

It was a selfless giving of His only son
that He gave to rend our chains undone
and bring us into relationship with Him
by the victory over sin that we proclaim He won!

Yet somehow life still becomes some kind of rat race
trying to appear holy and saving face
with no admittance that we still need grace
and our response to that grace just kind of...

Disappears.

And then I wonder why I don't see His face,
why I'm not moved by His Word
why I'm not changed by His grace.
I wonder why I don't want Him around,
while my wrists are secretly bound
with shackles I like too much to take off.

But on Sunday morning I pray to be free
to realize that this Jesus did die for me
so that I could be with Him where He is one day,
yet day to day, I almost never say

God, I need you, and I'm not okay.

And I know it doesn't have to be this way!
I know He gave His Spirit, He promised that He'd stay
With me until the end of the age
and even in my deepest darkness His love for me is still the same
But God, oh God, I'm so ashamed
of all the things I've done while periodically praising Your name.

But there is no condemnation from You, You say.
You invite me to turn and run away
Into your arms and that I'll be changed--
That You will give me a new heart
and remove all of this shame
If I'd just confess my sin to You, You'd take the pain.

So I beg, and beg, that every day
My response to You would be the same
To run to You and admit my need
For Your grace, for Your love
above everything.

That I'd never not be responding
with my life, my work, and all my talking
to the Christ that stepped into time
to make me His, and make Him mine.

Good sir, one thing I owe to you: to tell you that I hate thee true.
Your sly advances show for real that I am but your body's meal,
to be deliciously consumed, and have my sanctity be doomed.
Repent, oh Devil, back to Hell! Sink back into your slimy well
where from its spout burst tongues of fire to feed your wretched, black desire.
And if you do not go today then under Earth and dirt you'll lay.
I'll see that you ne'er have a breath until you've met your certain death.
You call yourself a pious soul, yet crying's God's name you take me whole.
You choke me up in your embrace, and tell me I'll be filled with "grace."
Thy love is but a dark snake's skin, which when once shed shows what's within.
Thy hands like teeth about to clench. The stink from out your mouth doth stench
-just like the rotting fumes of graves and poisoning the prey it craves.
Ah, sir, if you are even that. You pull your tricks out of a hat.
But I can see the trickery and magic so it's plain to see:
you do not love me for myself, you'd use me; put me on a shelf
- another token that you've won.
But put quite simply, sir, I'm done.

I took an evening stroll with you,
At the harbor we shared a kiss or two,
We watched the sun paint the sky,
I noticed the way the light caught your eye.

I love to sit and gaze at blurs
And think in that moment of what we were
Your fingers had the perfect space
I laid my eyes upon your face

I loved be there by your side
Fending off the butterflies
I held the comfort of our breaths
And you bore your soul, let me feel the depths

But after the harbor, I know we died
I felt like the whole thing was a lie
And God you made me feel alive
But the highs took a swan dive

I took you to my favorite spot
And where we kissed is where I plot
The grave for my heart, and I wonder
why you tore my heart asunder

Isolating myself,
confined to these four walls.
Refusing to care
Rejecting phone calls ..
And no doubt about it,it is very
safe to say
....One is a lonely number....
but that's how I stay.
Beaten,broken,betrayed ...
Life attempts to teach,,refine and ultimately birth a better me
But for now...... Being that there's a free will ,a hermit I choose to be.
But mainly I'm dying.

Do we
write?
For the profound,
or
simply
to please?

after "every single day" by John Straley

Am I a fool to believe
that the sun rises and sets
over the phrase "King Salmon"?
I wrote Solomon
almost every time.
I love this poem as I love you
awkwardly, wanting to entangle myself
in the things it says;
the things you don't say
and the smiles I imagine you giving
my eyes flitting,
playing in the spaces between
every single line

my dear poetry people, I'm in the process of starting a book and would love if I could have the opinions of talented lovelies such as yourselves to share with. would anyone be willing to read some of my works (none of which are on here) and let me know what you think? :)