He lived the life, He died the death
     That we might live with Him;
His blood was shed, but He's not dead
     Third day He 'rose again.

From behind two screens
Hides two crawling hands
scurrying
hurrying
a hushed heart
with words to give
and more life to live

And when we die alone
We will reap what we have sown
and though we live like eternity
is promised to our destiny

mercy sky
mercy sky
mercy sky
mercy sky

it's not for all who know or see
but for those who ask for faith to believe

they are free
i don't own my iniquity
mercy sky
i'm not dead
i'm alive

mercy sky
mercy sky
mercy sky
mercy sky

A star, I have found,
and that star is You!
Who have I among them
but You?

The galaxies
subjected to Your will;
You alone
can make their lights shine.

My hope is built
on nothing less.
May You make the stars shine,
and leave darkness destroyed.
May You be the pinnacle of joy.
May I dance with You as
You sing over me!

O, the love of the Maker
of the shining stars!

Who I am
who I'm not
which is right?
I forgot.

Memories of the past,
longings for the future...
they argue constantly.

The past says there is no future.
The future says to forget the past.
The present doesn't know
which voice to listen to.

Should the hope for the future
give way to the scars of the past?
Is the hope for tomorrow
a bleeding wound from yesterday?

I seek the answer.

If my present hope for the future
is merely an unbound scar...
I'd rather find a new hope and
let the scars heal.

But...

If my hope for the future
is a light to the present,
may I forget the past
and dance beneath the stars.

Madness. Stark raving madness.
Leaping flames of the mind. Gently licking
at the heart. Blood set on fire, brought
slowly to a boil. Madness. Stark. Raving.
Madness.

The conversation simmered as such:
"Don't be dramatic."

Is this how we go about
pretending we are shocked
when people cut themselves shoot themselves
hang themselves end themselves when
they are told to simmer as such:
"Don't be dramatic."?

Drama is my eye sockets bleeding
heavily at paper-crumbled past midnight.
But of course I cannot do that.
I cannot bring myself to bleed.

Drama is my hands effortlessly
clutching a neck- any neck, I don't care whose-
and squeezing until my eye sockets bleed.
But of course I cannot do that.

Drama is not a breathless exasperation
when suddenly a wave of the same old
same old begs to drown you again
and once again you must pick up a pen
to survive. Darjeeling you
tire me oh so very much. You hate me
oh so very much I think. You...

No, me
and my madness. Stark. Raving.
Madness.

Which I can't let happen again
because apparently dramatic is
being able to barely
take my next breath
and wondering why
respiration in a classroom
should be a mountain climb.

Because I'm young I tend to forget
that the world still turns
when you can't see yourself.

But you sleeping is how God reminds me:
flowers bloom best in the morning.