they say that
to start the healing process
of sadness
regret
and
redemption
you must start with a story.

to tell someone of
your vulnerabilities,
and to speak of them
without fear of being judged

to vocalize your own beliefs
to share your thoughts and love
and fears
and sadnesses
with someone

that is truly an art form.

maybe one day i will tell someone the story of you and i
as a process of
my own healing.

We drove past it every Thursday;
blank, bleach white walls.
Clean, block rectangular.

There was a garage
and sometimes a black car
in the driveway.

It stood out crowded by cluttered
town houses smothered in ivy,
with long grass, red brick or pebble-dashed.

Glass on the street and supermarket
bags on the path, traffic,
conventionality, routine, and teletext.

But his house stood out.
The closest vision of showbiz style
I could see with all I knew being

he grew up near here,
like me, and that must be it,
the very house where

he would live if still in this city.
Creating a myth to myself
that he was allusive but he was inside.

I’d wind down the car window
listening out for the sound of
his songs in the air,

or watch to see if anybody
opened the door, lights of cameras
in the seconds we pass the junction.

Of course, never saw him
on the Thursdays our car passed by
but knew he was very busy.

Telling stories, sitting around a table
Orange chairs, fake wood
I thought a library was supposed to be quiet
Space book, Notebook
Writing as we go
Stories about each other
Maiden and Prince dancing together
Broken lightbulbs around our heads
Angry about broken Aeroplanes

Telling stories, standing in the courts
Brick walls, broken windows
The game gets louder and louder
Green book, Broken pen
Writing as we go
Stories about our lives
Did you watch the news?
Have you seen my flag?
Happy for you, congratulations!

Telling stories, waiting for the train
Long day, cushy seats
People glare, teenagers they mutter
Sketchbook, Notebook
Writing as we go
Stories about our days
What did you do last?
Did you get the notice?
Tired, can we go home yet?

We tell stories
We live stories
But where does each one
End?

Do you see
the generation today,
my generation struggling
emotionally
having jarred into their heads
that it's not okay to cry
that it's not good to cry
that it's going to be alright
if you would just stop crying
if you would just wipe the tears off
that crying is for the weak (oh my son is not weak)
that crying wouldn't help
that crying is for the enemies
my generation
was served a lie on the platter
and we gulped it down
our throats without a thought
so that if we ever choke with tears
we'd gulp the lie over and over again
but mothers and fathers
look yourselves in the eye
and tell me if shedding a few tears
didn't turn down your grief
and tell me if shedding a few tears
made you any less a man
made you any less a woman
made you any less a human
Mothers and fathers
look your children in the eye
and tell them
crying is just another emotion
that has the ability
to sit down with your heart
in moments of grief
and be the friend
it needs the most.
tell them
crying is for the strong
crying is for those who feel
crying is for everyone
tell them
crying is okay.
crying is good.

There you are
So hurt, so pale, so weak
Your body mangled by the forces of man
And the color red, so scary, yet familiar
Your chest tightening, your breathing slowing, you're dying and yet... I'm still calm
I'll shock you, I'll breath for you
I'll make your own heart beat if I have to...
I made a promise to you, my patient
To never give up, and do everything I can

In light we see, the blemishes,
Give me darkness i insist,
Neath raven skies
The rhyming mind
Exists but never lives

The light at first diminished
Lost from sight,
I Squint to find,
Was the progeny of truth
Inside I bitterly denied

The light at first a glint
Of hope,
Now shimmering and bright
Existing neath
The raven sky
Now living as the mind

I am an angel in the rise

I am angelic in the fall

I am I Am at rest

And awake to such a tall

Man – shaggy hair rising in plaits
Form – immaculate sans
In pitch black etched across his chest

“Shall my hands afford ash?”

Read to a roar of laughter

1000
100
Only us

“Who are you?”

Cut short by a roar of laughter

100
10
Only us

“They call me Cain, brother, and I can only show you ‘what’.”

And what, indeed, amidst fiery chariots and divine palaces suddenly surging from ocean chasms had my thoughts sought to comprehend?

Here I am amidst a dream

A neon second scene

But where is the Word when

Awake, and to multitudes.

The morning sun rises to bring light on a blackened church. There, at a vandalized oaken pulpit I give my sermon. My Bibles were lost in the arsons committed on my home, my church, and the corner shop refuge that once provided living space for local destitute. I am unprepared this Sunday, but the Word flows freely. He ‘Is’ is speaking through me. I look down to my notes and revel in their order. Clean lines, a steady hand stroke on every letter composing a glorious sight amidst the seemingly ceaseless chaos of this life. The times have changed, and so I write these words hoping that they may bring Light to times darker than these.

I am a fool in the rise

I am foolish to fall

I am I Am at rest

And awake to such a bright
Light – refracting subaquatic from
Towers – streaming ribbons with the current
Whilst star-light chariots permeate disorder

“She made ham from ash”

A thought recited to a piercing silence
Singularity while

10
100
Observe

“Where am I?”

A thought recited to a low hum
Singularity while

100
1000
Consider

One – stepping forward from light
Form – immaculate sans
A wild, pulsing eye

“I am here to show you ‘what’.”

Expressionless

“Are you able?”

A smile

A light

“No, come.”

And so, with caution, I proceeded down Atlantean waterways buzzing with preternatural light and rhythm. Amidst this shimmering ocean scene there was beauty and awe which words to comprehend could only paint pictures of madness. And so, I came upon my home.

Here I am a king at sea

With neon throne and queen

But where is my Hand when

Awake, and to multitudes

The morning sun rises to bring light upon a blackened church, home away from home. The attacks grow fiercer by the week, and I have not managed to procure a Bible for today’s sermon. The turnout is better than ever, and the Word flows freely from my tongue. He ‘Is” is speaking through me. The people are queued from pew to door, from street to corner. They seek, en masse, refuge from daily struggles; refuge not found within these Holy walls. Yet, they come. Their order is glorious! Such a wondrous sight amidst the seemingly ceaseless chaos of this life has never before been seen. I write these words in hopes that they may bring Light to times darker than these.

I am sacred in the rise

I am sacramental in the fall

I am I Am at rest

And awake to such insurmountable

Sounds – reverberating
Grounds – quivering
Towers – streaming
Chariots – quickening

“Oh, what a beauteous scene I have come unto! Thank the Highest, thank the Highest! These neon lights, though manifest in form I dread, do not belie the Supreme! Nay, unto him I deem fit all creation! Do not these streams paint your name?! Have not these seams sewn your claim!? I am free among these dreams, and from You have all I need!”

Sang to all who would listen

“Could these hands afford ash, the embers of eternal flame would brand the holy flock! Could I make ham from ash, the maw of sheep would ne’er seek to be sated!”

Sang to all who could hear

“And ye had better listen who doubt the name!”

“But who are you who are such a tall”

Man – shaggy hair rising in plaits
Form – immaculate sans
Opaque lettering across his waist

“Shem HaMephorash”

Read to a crescendo of laughter

Only I
10
100

“Why am I here?”

Cut short by a crescendo of laughter

Only I
100
1000

And why, indeed, had such beauty been shown to one who could not comprehend? Why, indeed, had I been brought to the depths, to revel in that which I have been cast from?

“To pyre, to pyre!”

And so, all the oceans were torn asunder. The final baptism before

10
100
1000
Years


There I was

The second scene

Of all I have conceived, but a dream

But a dream

For here I Am

Amidst the seams

Of all the paths I weave

The morning sun rises to bring light upon a blackened church. It is not Sunday, yet the patrons are queued to the street corner again. These people have come to hear the Word flow, yet the Word for me today is woe. The final sermon: Whole and hearted.

“You are here for me, as I am here for you!
There is but one truth, one way, one mind!
It lies not within one, but within two!
The Singular Multitude!”

Traveling through the narrow path,
the three follow the black wolf.

He is the lead that will take them out of the darkness,
the pain of the forest,
the feeling of defeat.

The taste of hopelessness,
they wish they had not experienced such misery.

The one says, "Woe is me, so sad you see, on one knee, no tree to climb, no dime to spend, no friend to stay till the end, tend to them they said, how could I if we are all dead."

The two says, "To be true is to accept the new, yet no one knew the few will be of the crew out of twelve only three survived with a dive or risk and a splash of damage that comes with the flop, into the water we go suffer no more, indeed it hits the core but we will see what we have in store."

The three says, "All we need, is to follow the lead, it will take us to the light at the end of the tunnel into the funnel of strawberry covered pancakes where the days are good, and sophisticated. Back to our lives where the skies are blue, we'll wipe our foreheads and say 'woo' that was a long journey and be glad it is done."

The first speaks the worst sadness.
The second speaks of acceptance of fate.
The third speaks of potential positivity.

The wolf leads the herd of three.

Legs shaking bones breaking,
is the ground quaking?
Eyes burning, heads hurting,
What is all that noise?
Teeth grinding, fists clenches, brace yourselves,
at least that's what happens when you live life in this world.

It will take you down, try to destroy your spirit.
Weaken you through nonsense we believe may be true.
Our mind recognizes not the emperical,
yet it believes the delusional thought and see's the face
of betrayal when betrayal may not be present.
The mind allows such betrayal of the person,
the belief that leads us all to suffer.

There are many beliefs,
but neither are correct.

Science says there is no God,
we can't prove he's real therefore he is not.

God's "people" say,
Science is not fully real it's based on many theories.

Equal rights activists say,
People need to learn to be better people.

Media says you can do whatever you want,
dress indecent,
speak indecent,
be who "you" are even though it isn't really.

Young people say the older ones think what we have to say
is not important.

Old people say these kids are a bunch of rebels with no discipline, the generations keep getting worse and worse.

Parents say be whatever gender you want to be and we will support you during your time of confusion - at 6 years of age by not taking the time to fully understand what is going on.

The ignorant say, you made this comment. Therefore I hate you.

The wise stay quiet.
The stupid keep speaking.
Because of this the world worsens,
because of that we are a corrupt generation,
because of this fact we walk a path of confusion and pain,
a path that is lead by the black wolf,
that represents evil yet we perceive is good.
We put our hopes on anything,
we follow anything we think may work.
We no longer stand for what we believe,
but we stand for the beliefs of others and influences
that have been brought upon us as we were young that we
no longer are able to understand the root of or intention.

We are dying, without knowing what it is to love our neighbor.
We believe that with love comes *** yet this idea is toxifying
and destroys us inwardly.
We no longer understand what caring for one another is,
because in the eyes of the many it is an expression of weakness.

The weak is pushed around and tossed.
The strong believe they are at the top yet, the tower of Babylon will fall eventually.
Crumbling and destroying everything in its path as it did
while it was being built.
Neither the strong understand one another,
and the strong fight with the strong.

And this ladies and gentleman,
is our world of pain.
Where people hurt,
and its looked down upon to give a shoulder to cry on.

People cannot ask for help because it is said to leave them vulnerable,
this is your world of pain.
But who can we blame?
My neighbor hurts me,
but my neighbor does not know better.
Nothing that doesn't promote us to get money
is worth learning.
This is the wolf.
This is our World Made of Pain.