Turns out they were right
all the glitter
is not always gold
that some truths are better not told
that bad things
are more complex
then we think
that truth are more complex
that not everything is black and gray
that truth can be twisted
I give up
nothing I can do
the truth is twisted
and hate to tell you
that the truth

Rain forgets itself.
It falls, it breaks, it unnames.
I long to follow.

We come with humble hearts to listen
To listen to our Savior speak
We bend our knees in humble adoration
In adoration to the Blessed Christ
We bow our heads and lift our hearts
Lift our hearts to the Lamb on High
With the angel choirs in Heaven we sing
We sing sweet songs in glory to the Lord
Fill our hearts with child-like wonder
In wonder do we see such awe-full splendor
We leave it all to follow you
Follow your way, your life, your truth

Today I looked at my belly, and said

I hate you.

Tomorrow, just a little less.

I’m flat on the table staring up at myself.
There is a small smile on my face.
As though I understand something.
I’m younger on the table.
A decade?
More?
What did I know?
My god, I was young.
My hands move.
They are weathered.
Beaten and old.
Veins pop out in odd places,
at odd angles.

I’m sitting at the table looking down at myself.
I’m older now.
Wiser, I hope.
There is no smile.
I tell myself that wisdom and smiles
are not mutually exclusive.
I hope I’m right.
No more cameras.
No more pictures.
I can’t handle it anymore.

I found a letter you wrote
when you were thirteen
and it doesn't bleed right
it barely reads right.
In youth there was fear
and lightning and violence
and sure maybe you weren't
complete but you were whole.
An island on which only you
could stand.
You could look into the distance
but you couldn't see forever
and maybe it scared you
but it didn't really matter.
You didn't deserve forever, anyway.
I read the letter and didn't
see you anymore.
Time and tide have long since
had their effect.
The island has gone
the violence
the silence
the fear
they've gone, too.
I look out into the distance
and I can see forever
but this letter,
these scared pages,
they aren't me
and by that, I mean you.

The longer a blade is held
to the grindstone
the less remains.
Sure it gets sharper
but quickly it also
gets thrown away.
We are not axes, my friends.
We are not tools.
Not meant to be used
and discarded
and played like fiddles
like fools.
Don't compliment me
on my grind
It's meaningless.
It isn't even mine.
The system in place
requires the hours,
extreme in their need,
in order that I may
look on a family
that I can then feed.
When you take a blade
to grindstone it is
because the edge is poor.
When you let it rest
from that friction you'll
find it can do more.
Sharpen when needed
allow time for rest.
Give the people a minute
let them catch their breath.
We are not broken
but the system we labor under is.
We don't need to be sharpened
we just need time to live.

You sit nearing forty
doing nothing noteworthy,
doomscrolling and
wondering when the
wisdom comes.
Sure, you mocked
us when we broke against
the distant ground
because you had the
knowledge not to leap,
knew where to keep
planted firm with both feet.
But now you worry
at why we seem to know
why we move confident
you wonder at the secret
behind our success and your stall
and the truth is there
is knowledge not to leap
but wisdom comes from the fall.