Take me away
To where only happy music plays
And the worries go away
Take me to that place.

Where there's only light
And no more fights
Where only a dream
Is all I could see.

Conquering that new horizon
Where all we are thriven
Is that quencher
Take me on a adventure.

I'm not a poet
But
I will pretend
Just to give myself a little mystery

I'm not a poet
But
Life is too dull
And there are demons that exist in me

I'm not a poet
But
My life is full of stories to be told
And this is me sharing my bits of history

I'm not a poet
But
I'll happily pretend
Because you never know
And life is full of mysteries

im ****** wine
your champagne
were both drunk
and not careful
what our bodys campaigning
but lust filled eyes
and ****** desires
is all we want
in this romantical attire
but im cheap wine
and your champange
and by the end of this
we'll part our seperate ways

My heart is a mechanism over which I have no control
My heart is a weapon I use against myself
My heart is a conglomeration of mixed up emotions
My heart is a tattered and torn but still somehow beating vessel
My heart is a complete and utter paradox; it perplexes even myself
My heart is heavy artillery ready to open fire on me at any moment
My heart is a solitary device, driven only by its own selfish and foolish desires
My heart is a kindergarten craft project, held together weakly with superglue,
but each fragile piece created with care
My heart is the antithesis of progress,
the opposite of what I need to remain sane

Time is a social construct,
constricting us to certain hours
and denying us the potential magic of others.

There’s a silence in-between the broken ecstasy of youth
The dysfunctional becomes the idealistic way of everyday behavior
The act of pretense and the loud incomprehensible filth
Take a listen to this person
Hear their story unfold
Tell me you can’t feel their hearts fault
That slip of the tongue  
That downward glance
And tell me you agree
A fluid filled night
Music that cuts through the room so quietly
Conversation so easily forgettable
Memories so happily forgotten
Nights we ‘blissfully’ collect become the substance of being
The reality of fiction
I pretend to care about
We carelessly listen to ignorance and stupidity
Fall in love on a night of this
Fall in love with a lie that’s so perfectly built
Building a life with the strangers around us
Strangers we pretend to know
Strangers we pretend to be.

The lizard approached
the beautiful tree..
made his play
you might say.
Started to climb
with such glee
intentioned to stay
all the day.
He then went limp
down he fell.
What had happened
no one could tell.
He was checked out
when he lost his function.
Found to have
a dreaded problem..
    ... called...
Reptile Dysfunction.
------------------------------------
The Lizard might have
stopped to See Alice
before the charge or his friend
Viguana.

(C) 03-2014. John stevens

The Canvas
(c)08-25-2012

A canvas sets on the edge of greatness and beauty, blank, waiting for the touch of the master’s hand. She takes charge of what is to be. Gentle strokes, broad strokes, strokes that caress the canvas… leaving the marks of imagination, transforming nothing into beauty. The image emerges revealing the thoughts and desires and power of the canvas. It is breath-taking to the beholder. She understands the difference between OK and great. Nothing will do but great. It must emulate the original. It must be the original! So it is with our canvas of life.

We start life as a blank canvas. Brush strokes are made by those around us as we begin to grow. Made by mom, dad, friend and strangers alike. All try to add their image to our canvas. An image of who they think we are. As we grow into the artist we strive to be, we accept or reject the strokes of others and create a portrait we strive to become.

Some strokes by others can leave an off color, covering who we really strive to be. A brush stroke that is not us can be covered by our touch, our color, our imagination of who we are, adding integrity to the texture and hue. Revealing an inner beauty as the artist of our life takes control, guiding our hand, adding the touches that transform the canvas from OK to great.

The Artist chooses the colors, the brushes from which she wants to define her life. The decisions are hers to make as she selects the shades of color, or even black and white, that will define her life. She paints a portrait of peace and joy, of self-less love for family and friends.. All else is unimportant. The things of past are covered. Today and tomorrow are forming a painting that will be great.

Letting the Master’s Hand guide our hand, we find freedom flowing freely onto and into our canvas. In doing His will in our life, we are set free. A freedom indescribable at times as we are lost to the distractions of the past. Caught up in the hope and love of today.

The Master guides our hand, willingly or even unwillingly at times in our artistic endeavor. As we learn to relax and give Him control of our hands, He reveals the beauty that is within us. It is great.

I have heard being an artist and painting described as being easy but living life as being difficult and unsure. Life can be described as a series of brush strokes, choices. Some can destroy the beauty intended for our canvas. Some strokes can create breath-taking beauty which radiates outward, inspiring the ones observing our portrait.

This was inspired by a young friend of mine, she left a few brush strokes on my life. They will not be painted over. They will be treasured, remembered for a long time to come.

When I look into a mirror, I want to see Jesus, the Creator of my portrait.