Oftentimes we can be inanimate as an insentient being,
If not, then lost, torn, or broken,
Drifting off into a minimally-conscious stupor,
Responding only the the most prominent of stimuli,
Quite frankly, most of the time, we aren’t really alive.

And this--this is condemnable!
This is a pleasureless trick!
The human mind has incredible potential,
Yet it's hardly active,
And essentially quite thick

Still, such is forgivable
For when we originate the formidable,
Dreams come true,
Aspirations brought to place
Life is brought to life through inspiration!

Have you never experienced some urges?
Strong desires that can never be explained?
They rain down,
As a blessing,
Better use them--
They're quite shifting,
For the love of yourself and your species:
Respond to compulsions of ingenuity!

Out of all indecipherable anomalies,
Creativity is by far the strangest.
Yet, strange is commensurate to lovely,
If put into practice,
Creativity is quite comely.

Some might say said compulsions are
Granted by the influence of divine beings,
Yet I believe they manifest from the divinity IN us,

I could grant a rant,
An oration,
Or a panegyric about compulsions
But only under the circumstance
Of such an aforementioned trance

Oh Life!
Such compulsions are
The love of me!
My pillar of strength,
My foundation of truth,
Mainstay and
My hope!
My perceived ESSENCE

whats the point of those chemicals
the ones that make me flirty
and giggly
and easy

what's the point of the regret
that makes me groan the next day
and sleep for hours
and sad

i guess those chemicals make you pretty happy

Oh, But what does it all mean Hidalgo?
Are we to fly in the face of the North Wind forever?

My mind has gone blank at the question.
Stranger still, the story perceived in prescient anticipation of the exact mentioned query once expounded upon spanning millions of miles of eloquent esoteric linguini, wit and charm with a dash of philosophic consequence, to fool you (the eager) into belief.

What is belief Hidalgo, but the suspension of reality, for an adept deeper world of unseen truth?

Do we see reality at all my friend? It is already shaped by our perceptions, responds to our expectations, nay we have not a clue, perhaps the arcane texts written by the hobo scholars of old hold the answer, so yet we settle on the material and fixate it as the lone clear star in an otherwise dark and cloudy sky. Mysteries abound behind the cosmos. Even when we look, do we really see, or are we as an insect upon the written page, crawling over the plain meaning? Is our capacity to hear underwhelmed by our propensity to listen? All these senses must count for something, for God is in a blade of grass, is he not, felt by the trodden hoof of the foot.

You’re a clever mad man Hidalgo.

Ay, the penultimate creator, singing in a sea of song, shining in a wave of light, lost in a dance of fractals, we are all the same rascal, blind though we are to the portrait of man, always creating, same as my neighbor, weaving dreams into Technicolor realities to beam into a future unknown. Our descendants watching us as reality television, mocking our fallibility, or perhaps empathizing and learning through telescopes strong enough to win a foot race with the sun; flying around the bend of space time and back.

The birds of the island are calm today; think they favor a slumbering respite from the noonday heat?

Mayhaps we’ll take a stroll across the columnous muddy bed, risking grey clay mummified suffocation; I dreamt as such. Yesterday’s storms make the journey perilous. My own thoughts leak from the grandiose ether and compel me to genius, the condition of the interminably insane or divine.

My bare feet tread the good earth, the 3rd density, in a daily attempt to stay grounded, however my mind is always floating, receiving transmitted whispers. Sanctified secret musings of the muse. Scribbled poetry of another dimension, meaningless to the materially minded, yet wholesome for the moment. Like a thunderstorm whose power is plain, yet unheard and unseen as the forest falling with a tree. Where do the tree and the forest begin? Are they the same root? Like my thoughts from a universal mind, the zeitgeist of an all-encompassing mood, a social memory complex.

The sophists will claim you are dodging responsibility. These tangents serve only to feed your egoic mind, but put no food in your belly nor rent in another’s hand.

Ay, but its creation all the same.
A tirade of compulsions. The ringing of the hill grows, the natural chorus of bugly unison screaming its existence into the manifold, manifesting itself to the initiate.

For what are they asking, could it be peace?

Ha Ha! Those shrill like cries wound the ears of the prideful dog, but are contained in the silences of the infinite potential all the same.

A man may change one hundred lives in a day, and earn no material currency for his unasked effort. Therefore, who is trivial? I change the wind by simply being, its current flows over me and the endless blades alike.

Vibratory love, what is that feeling, the realest phenomena of all?

Bliss in its own awareness, reveling in self-revelation, actualization, the knowingness of the child who still sees the spirit existing in each of the physical realm’s shadows. The taste of the foul and pure passing without judgment to the innocent tongue. A simple being secure with the wisdom of the wise. Does the power come from you or the hill, inspiring motions, accounting on the page symbolically. Break it down further. Dissolve. ******* into nothingness.

What is cheating Hidalgo?

Is the ant called to my arm by its own volition, how did it find me here on this patch of earth formed into mound by ancestors buried below.

Opening up all channels now.

Death locks the door with life’s key.

Should I let him crawl over me repeatedly?

Ten words to speak before the coming of the night.

Creative Destruction
Awake from the trance
Guns and Bullets
Shoot from our hands
Teller of Tales
Faint whisperer
Of sordid man’s
Hallucinatory waking
Follow the Beam
Follow the beam
The world before this world
Secrets unseen
My best thoughts come
As I lie suspended awake in sleep
Before sleep
No troubles
The curse runs blood deep
He closes the book but still speaks in rhyme
The riddle draws madness
The tongue laps up the fire
Drawn from self same wells
Will and Desire
Pruning and Preening
Political Beasts are we
Lost in our notions
I find, I keep
Braggadocioc Players
Upon the Worldly stage
Every person has the story
Only what is real?
What is fate?
So I lift my hat
To another year born true
A quarter century passed
Play the tune


Am I awaken by words from another man’s sleep?
What is the source of the tetradactyl nature?
My hexagonal heap
Of flesh and bones
Earth and dust
Brought together again by unending sound vibrating ceaselessly
I sleep but am not rested
Eat but am never full
The piper plays among the sand
Whirling in the heart of the caged word
If I keep my eyes fixated on a point, in actuality my vision expands and visualizes all

Reputationally speaking,
I am an ant, with male pattern baldness
We forget to chuckle at life’s absurdities, just as we pass by flowers without engaging the fragrance.


Rest your head with the hillside now
Restless wanderer of fantastical dreams

Treading water silently until our legs melt
Just as the weary albatross cries its last song over the harbor or the butterfly ***** its freckled wings, so too will we see the setting of the sun and a coming of the new dawn. If the chalk works carved in the abandoned sidewalk are to be believed, so must we girdle ourselves for the coming tides and lift our spirits once more for the ebb and flow of circumstance. The bike rides in the gutter all the same, and the forgotten cemetery stone stands as testament to the age gone by.

My Obsessive Compulsive Disorder causes me severe anxiety.

It's hard. To have it my way. It's hard. I overthink it. The images of the little things replay in my mind.
I can't seem to hide.

Why do I have this fear? Just make it all disappear. It's not reasonable yet it feels so intense.
I feel tense. I am not satisfied with my presence. I feel uncomfortable.
Why am I not content with my surroundings.

My disorder involves both obsessions and compulsions that take up lot of time and get in the way of important activities that I value.

So many mistakes that I need to fix.
So hard to perfect everything.

The line I drew isn't straight, I have to start all over.

I need to wash my hands again. It's been 5 minutes since I haven't.

Don't bite the Kit Kat, break off each stick and eat it.

The clothes in my closet should be hung up and organized by color.

My picture frame isn't hung up in the middle of the wall.

My food should not be mixed with the side dishes or I refuse to eat.

My apps aren't on the right page of my phone.
Twitter should be under social and instagram should be under photography and if it's not, it's wrong, it's all wrong!


I need to wash my hands again it's been 10 minutes since I haven't.

The tv volume should only be an even number or a multiple of five.

Why is my seatbelt twisted?
My mind is twisted.
All these errors are persistent.
So hard to resist it.

I am not leaving my house until my phone is 100%, 97% and I can't stand it (will not do. )

Mother tells me it'll be alright after i take my pills...I agree to as long as the pills are sorted by color

Once upon a time there lived a little girl. This little girl was no different to anybody else. She liked to play with her friends, she listened to her teachers and everyday she’d go home to watch TV and play with her two brothers and her little sister. This little girl’s life continued to flow smoothly, she went to school, got good grades, started high school, made new friends, and everyday she’d go home to find her mum making dinner and she’d watch her dad come home after a long days’ work.

The little girl had a good life.

Until one August morning when the little girl awoke only to find that she’d never hear her mother’s voice again.

That little girl’s mother died that day and that little girl suddenly wasn’t just a little girl anymore. The little girl was devastated by her loss but she tried her best not to show it. The little girl put on a mask, one that hid all of her pain and suffering from those around her. No matter how much the little girl hurt, no one could ever see it. What the little girl didn’t know was that the longer she wore this mask, the harder it would be to take off. So the mask stayed on, forever hiding all that she felt from the world. This mask took all of the little girl’s emotions away, both good and bad, it made her completely numb.

So the little girl learnt how to pretend.

She pretended that she was fine. She pretended to be happy when something good happened and pretended to be sad when something bad happened. The little girl was able to pretend for four years before the cracks started to appear in her mask. You see after four years of pretending that everything was fine pressure started to build under the mask. Every fake smile, every fake laugh….. Every fake tear, it all built the pressure up under that mask. Until one day the cracks in the little girl’s mask got so big that the mask shattered into thousands of tiny pieces that could never be put back together again, and all of the emotions, the fake smiles, laughs and fake tears; everything under that mask came out all at once.
Suddenly the little girl couldn’t pretend anymore. Everyone had seen the mask break; they had all seen what was hiding beneath it. So the little girl stopped pretending, but after so long without real emotions she realised that she didn’t know how to be happy, sad, angry, anxious…….. She didn’t know how to feel anything.
The little girl that had once hidden from her emotions, her pain, the world and even herself was forced to face it all at once.

The little girl couldn’t handle it.

The little girl went to the doctors and asked them to fix her. They told her that she was depressed. They gave her some pills and told her that they would make the pain go away. And they did, for a little while at least, but then new problems emerged. Sure the pills took away the pain, but now it was almost like there was too much happiness. The little girl saw the world in Technicolor vision; her thoughts raced and flew faster than anything known to mankind. She had compulsions to clean and to create, to socialise and love. She wanted to yell her happiness from well above the tree tops. Nothing could stop her. She felt immortal. Death was but a tiny distant memory to her.

This feeling never lasted long.

Before long the depression would come back, she found herself with a blade in her hand and tears streaming down her face many times. Too many times she found herself asking what the point in living was. All she wanted to do was die. She experimented with different kinds of overdoses, she got sick and most importantly she stopped caring. She didn’t care about anyone else, she didn’t care about herself. All she wanted was for the world to just stop spinning. The depression took over, until suddenly the world would change and colour would come back. That’s when the compulsions would come back, the racing thoughts, and the happiness. All of it would come rushing back. But just as quickly as it came; it went. This cycle continued for a long time until, during a moment of depression, she got a little too close to death and found herself in a psychiatric hospital.

All of the doctors and nurses agreed that there was more than just depression plaguing the little girl. They threw around words like bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder and cyclothymia. They gave the little girl new pills. This time they were supposed to stop her from going high, and also low. They were supposed to keep her stable. And then, they sent her home. They messed with her medication a lot, trying to find the right ones. They started her on one hell of a rollercoaster ride; and on that rollercoaster ride, is where you can find that little girl today.

I'm up late again.
Can't stop my mind from racing.
Going. Going. Going.
Obsessing.
Ironically, late at night is when your brain is at it's most creative.
Is it any wonder the best artists are insomniacs?
I've been fighting that.
"I need to sleep at a decent hour so I can wake early & be productive."
"I NEED this particular item to write this particular thing."
"I cant sit down & write/draw/create in a filthy house."
"Someone might call or need me, I can't get ****** in to that now."
"I need to clear my head before I can sit down & do this."
"I have my routine, all my daily tasks that must be accomplished, before I have time for myself."
I NEED TO STOP BULLSHITTING MYSELF.
I NEED TO STOP LETTING THIS BE AN EXCUSE.

See, I want to write.
I want to paint.
Draw.
Shoot.
Design.
Cut.
Glue.
Hammer.
Sew.
Create.

I used to do these things to a point of obsession. To a point where they kept me from completing every day tasks.
I remember as a kid, I'd get in trouble for using my school notebooks as a drawing pad.
Or the teachers couldn't keep my on task because I was off in my head scribbling away at some story.
God himself could not pry me from what I NEEDED to let out of me.
Then I grew up.
I think thats what happened.
Suddenly I had so many more things to worry about.
I had to put away childish things.
Life became so much more than the fairy tales I made for myself.
I forgot how to be what I was.
I only knew I had to do things.
Stupid, every day, grown up, necessary things.
That became my new obsession.

I traded one for the other.

Now I stand on a battlefield.
I have chosen the darker evil.
Doesn't make sense?

Remember Peter Pan? His life was full of adventure & freedom & joy.
The grown ups, the ones who forgot how to have those things, became bitter shadows of themselves.
They lost everything for all the wrong reasons.
I don't think I ever felt more closely identified with a fairy tale character (or characters because I find that the many different aspects of my psyche very closely identifies with most every character Peter Pan.)

Anyways.

For several years now, I find that I have been trying to reclaim this lost part of my soul. I don't think anyone, save perhaps 2 or 3 people realize just how important this is to me. These are people that would have known me in my early high school years, before the dreaded piracy of true adulthood took me away.

Why not just pick up the pen & write something? you may ask.
Well, it's not that easy.
Not for an obsessive compulsive thinker.
I'm not using that term lighty either.
I hear brats toss it around like a fashion statement.
Like having OCD is the new trend.
Just because you're a neat person doesn't mean you have a disorder, *******.
I know how many steps it takes to get from each corner & point in every home I am familiar with.
There are patterns in my day that, if broken, send me into emotional Hell.
There are many aspects to this disease.
This illness.
Whatever one may choose to identify it as.
I haven't found something I'm comfortable with yet.
I'm only just beginning to be comfortable with facing this truth in myself.

I let the only reality & peace I knew be burried away & my brain formed this militant prison of order around it.

The good thing is, my heart knows better.

When I'm able to bust those walls down for even a few brief moments in which I can slip past the compulsions & allow complete chaos take my hand & create, I am free.
When I become inspired by something & am able to mentally break away long enough to pursue it, it's like capturing a god ****** unicorn.

Unfortunately, more often than not, I find inspiration fade away. The many excuses I wrote before, just the tip of the iceberg, take hold & beat me back into my weakened submissive routine. I literally have stood still, as though at a play, & watched my head battle in itself to convince me NOT to follow the idea.
I may be *****, but I am no one's slave.
Least of all to myself.
Which begs my fear: control.
Why do I control myself?

Art is not controlled.
Creation is not controlled.
Beauty is not controlled.

These things cannot be tethered to definition or reason or logic or mathematics or laws or routine.
So the war inside me rages.
The problem in my head with its finger in my face is rationalizing ignoring the passion in my heart.
That disorder is sorely mistaken if it believes passion is in any way rational.

So this is what stands:
I am fighting an illness, something I aim to fight & beat & never succumb to again.

Creation is the air I breathe & no matter what worldy or sensory things bring me pleasure, nothing fullfills me like raw thought pouring forth from me.

I cannot stand by envious of the lives & accomplishments of my peers because I was too weak to take hold of the only true thing I hold dear. I am sick of hearing myself say "if only I could" or "maybe some day" or "I used to". I am done crying myself to exhaustion because I physically cannot pick up a pencil.

I don't know where to start.
I guess choking through this & fighting off anxiety attacks as I type is as good a start as any.

My most beloved author, inspiration, & life long hero, Anne Rice said,

"Keep the faith. Writers need faith...Just keep writing & believing in yourself...Just write until the juices start. Don't put up with Writer's Block...eventually you just have to write & write & write."

Write I shall.
Until it gives me anuerysms from fighting these tiny ticks & compulsions.
Until the tears are of success rather than submssion.
One step at a time I will conquer more than I ever thought possible.
I will take back my heart.

I knocked on your door a little after twelve
You were lying on the floor staring through a valve
Nothing going in, but only emitting out
You’re suffocating within all your doubt
I reach my hand out to save you
But you say you’re just feeling blue

If life’s about emotions
And not about tomorrow
Then we might as well follow
All of our compulsions

I looked in your eyes for something past your pain
I began to realize the beauty that was plain
Yet still your thoughts grew darker than the night sky
But God’s love is stronger even when you cry
I reach my hand out to save you
But you say you’re just feeling blue

If life’s about emotions
And not about tomorrow
Then we might as well follow
All of our compulsions

I saw you in the day a smile was on your face
Everyone thought you were okay but that was out of place
I saw the scars and tears I saw the broken heart
I know your pain and fears tearing you apart
I reach my hand out to save you
But you say you’re just feeling blue

If life’s about emotions
And not about tomorrow
Then we might as well follow
All of our compulsions

I walked home with you last night in the pouring rain
Your heart was sore and contrite never having a name
So I hope you know that I am still here
Every time you go to the mirror dear
I reach my hand out to save you
But you say you’re just feeling blue

If life’s about emotions
And not about tomorrow
Then we might as well follow
All of our compulsions

I reach my hand out again but only to myself
The mirror is my den evidence of the gulf
Between ideals and life oh shame the little dreamer
Struggling in his strife there is a day that will be cleaner

i was born all naturally
formed in a lax factory
im actually
a hack with ******* in my nose, practically,
every day,  haphazardly
stumbling home, half asleep
i cant tell whats happening
vision begins blackening
im whack like kriss kross
crack like rick ross
major brown boy to houston
be like, "yes, we have liftoff"
dont like me when i'm *******
cause *****, i'm bruce banner
or maybe i'm bruce wayne
either way, i got mad manners

tearing down walls like berlin
preaching like its a sermon
potential begins to burgeon
i'll cut you up like a surgeon
killing in place of coercion
so you better lower the curtain
my head and my body are hurtin
so tell me how quick does the world spin?

i'm taddling on ya, you can call me a toddler
but the snitchin n' **** is somethin im never fond of
and i never grow up, cause i'm the neverland smuggler
peter pan turns into one of my best customers

i never grew into my head, im not cocky
never had the eye of the tiger, im not rocky
growing up i never got in fights or caused a lotta ****
but presently im screaming "**** the world", i've got a bone to pick

i've gotta problem and i think its the probable cause
you hold me captive, keep me trapped in your facets of laws
looks of repulsion are what cause me to brandish my claws
constant compulsions reminiscent of prodigal flaws
i've gotta problem and i think its the probable cause
see im a goblin shark i'll sink in my nautical jaws
im not a joker im a jester with lesser facades
wrought with insomnia cause drugs are american gods

I'm too despressed to notice I'm stressed out
Suppressed emotions inside, shouldn't let out
Seeing is believing but what I see isn't real
I am forced to accept these "realities" and ignore the way I feel

I don't mean to sadden, entertain, bore, or aggravate,
For a decade I find that this is how I communicate
The only way I can precisely speak out on the unhealthy pleasures
As the chemicals of my brain, they fornicate

These levels of relationships aren't supposed to be
It'll **** me sometime later, look at how it has ruined my personality
Seeing is believing, but you won't believe what I see
How can I act 'normal' when you won't acknowledge I can't do 'human being'

My animalistic compulsions are fuelled by my failing brain functions
Don't get too close cause I'll try to bite, I sympathise for your flesh when I malfuntion
Don't be scared, I'm not canibalistic, I just like to use my teeth
Humans scare me, I must defend myself, uh, I mean, to smile and eat

I'm not afraid to say it, but I'm scared when I'm saying it, I have to say
I have been observing your mundane human actions, I really don't want to be put away
I always feel foreign, alienated, out-of-place
But because I'm "considerate," I have to bite my tongue to save me some face

I'm too stressed out to notice that I'm depressed
Wanting mental soundessnes, yes, peace, my hallucinations don't give me rest
My taughts speed down their highway, my delusions are always a-fest
They inflict beneath my exterior, but for the public eye, I wear a crest

"I wear my skin well, don't you think?" I lie, becuase it ill-fits
I am totally normal, "I'm fine." Can't change the fact I'm a misfit.
The beams that bear my bag of meat rust and thus begin to weaken
The lethal sagging's caused by the mental luggage, I'm not heard, even though I'm speaking

Many persons think that I'm overly paranoid, I must admit, that I am
You would be the same way too, if about your health, no one ever gives a ****
Help doesn't come, because their 'laters' always becomes 'nevers'
I am not that superhuman, can't keep myself together, forever

They claim that they would help me, some way, somehow, but their actions never initiate
Someday, sometime, it would all be over, through a thorough death physical or mental
Oh yes, I'm still believing, you can't accuse me of not having faith.
I look forward to my healing, but all the while, my brain chemicals fornicate.

I take a pill
Every night
Before bed
And it keeps away
The panic
The compulsions
The stress
The perfectionism
The drive
The desire for excellence
The 4.0 student
Everything that was
Killing me
And
Creating me
So, now I have to decide
Is it worth it?

i was at work this evening
sweeping back and forth
back and forth
and back and forth
...12 times
mind plagued with compulsions,
ocd, anxieties
i hear the whispers
muttered by those who think
that u were the one
who did this to me
wow, u really drove me mad,
drove me crazy!

but back to the scene at hand
i hear the opening notes
of that band
i know and that song
that became so comfortable and
oh so familiar
...zz top, sharp dressed man

i’m taken into a trance
this image of you smiling on this couch
oh so deceiving,
yet so inviting
i give in and sneak a glance
of you
playing your own one man air band
drums and guitar
with you’re long hair flying everywhere
like a crown around your head
...before those toxins turned your hair
as thin and frail as you

there’s a tug at my heart
and it hurts a little
what’s this feeling?
i haven’t felt this towards you in a while
but it comes by sometimes
hand in hand with that deceiving smile
for a fleeting moment
...i miss u?
before i remember
what lay behind
that venomous grin

then i’m angry
for once not at you
but at myself
i hate you!
i hate you
i’m supposed to hate you
right?

i didn’t know what to feel
before i felt that familiar sensation
a heavy weight in my chest as
my heart rate speeds up
and i have to pull myself back
into reality
quick! before i lose control
thoughts spiraling around me
focus on something else
anything else!
anxieties, ocd, compulsions
maybe it’ll ease the weight on my chest
i grip the broom in my small, sweating, trembling hands
and begin to sweep
back and forth
back and forth
and back and forth
...24 times this time
1/22/2019

Who am i?
When the scars are stripped away
the obsessions gone
the compulsions unneeded
When i don't know the taste of serotonin on my tongue
the disappointment of looking in the mirror
or the bite of metal against my stomach
When i am myself again,
bare of the illnesses that have weighed me down
Who will i be?

Overdone rituals and the burden of traditions.
Peer pressure and annoying gossip prevailing above reason and reality.
The unwarranted compulsion of academic excellence, with no acceptable compromise!

Our rotten society and it's cruel, cruel judgment!
Living in a body, no, it's a cage--
Craving acceptance in isolation--

The cage became a cave
And eventually, the door shut.

It got so dark inside,
I could only see black...
I was sick of it!
Frustration rising to the point of retardedness!
Angry! So very ANGRY!
I wanted to defeat it,
This darkness on the inner side.
So bad, the ache for reprieve was getting worse!
So desperate!
For a way out...

Then, inspiration struck!
And a melody chimed its way in.
With the clock going tick tock
I imagined a chocolate block;
And I ate my way out!

*I've never bothered with their rules again.

Zooming fast
Zipping and
Ripping through
Brain matter

Negative neurons
Infiltrate and invade
Irrationally made
Usurp what’s real
It’s all surreal
In the most ****** up
Of ways

Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat *****;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,

Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new-
Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate, and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognizable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and *****-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation - marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these - for whom was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognised, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.

the rain pours outside, and i become compelled to
pour my own self into a ****** poem that won't cover half.
pour my own self into a ****** poem that won't cover at all.

the rain pounds outside, and i become compelled to
cower into a corner and pound against my walls that don't budge.
cower into a corner and pound against the wall with my ribs.

the rain thunders outside, and i become compelled to
thunder my way into what i think i deserve that isn't even half,
thunder my way into what i think i deserve that becomes even less.

the rain is lighting outside, and i become compelled to
be lighting and light my way through rotten magnets that easily budge,
be lighting and light my way through rotten cement that won't give.

the rain intensifies outside, and i become compelled to
twist a beating ***** until i can intensify whatever's left to feel,
twist a beating ***** until i can intensity whatever is not.

the rain dies outside, and i become compelled to die.
die into a fine mist that'll leave a mark on everyone,
die in such a fine way that i'll be able to breathe again.

the rain pours outside, and i drown.

You creatures used to be alive,
Now you're just desks with pulses.
You preachers used to breathe lies,
Now the air just smells repulsive.

Let's toast to our compulsions!
A third-finger salute to ill-indulgence, burnt out lights, and shame convulsions.
Leave the worries to the workers and the fearful.
Let the smiles stretch further while the room's erupting by the earful.

Sub-tyrannic suburban boredom brushes with death.
Sunk Titanic bourbon lushes bearing fermented breath.
Replica. Replica. Replica.
Fried Pickles and Angelica...haha.
Laughter via Helvetica.

A Doctor of Yesterday living in a pseudo-science fiction age.
What will be found between scribbled shore and shining sea?
An empty box filled with smoke and broken mirrors may be a shattered trick on  stage,
But does that mean that progress is solely based on me?

The stage is setting. The studios offer their warm embrace in exchange for a piece of yourself.
A piece, without, you are still a whole. A piece that is meant to be harvested, for if not it will wither and wilt.
Dropping, coasting, floating.
Anything but falling. An idea left un-reaped will be purged by slithering guilt.

The world warps and billows to conform to the view of the looking glass, yet, stretches far beyond it.
Letting go doesn't mean giving up, but rather, to allow the wind to blow and twist your perspective.
The harder you try, the more you will see: It's all a lot easier to swallow when you're not being force-fed ****.
A fine cocktail, made with equal parts top-shelf desperation, and the world's finest dedication,
Served in a glass half full of luck.

Sometime's you're flush, and sometimes you're bust, but most times, you lie somewhere in the between.
A spinning brain and a sparatic heart.
An argument spun from the silk of a dying worm.
An infection of the brain with no negotiation of terms.

Sleeping on porches and storming the boredom beaches.
Mad? Surely. Angry? Not even. Discretely thanking the earthquake for shaking things up.
The missing link lies just outside of our nests, dangling from a branch just beyond our reaches.
Though my wings clipped, and yours yet to form fully, I'm down to take a dive just to find out what's up.

Sometimes I think the clouds in the sky are just a reflection of my attitude.
I'm only here to have fun. Either grow up or get lost, boy.
There's something about a yellowing onion that reminds me of home.

Obsessive–compulsive disorder (OCD) is an anxiety disorder characterized by intrusive thoughts that produce uneasiness, apprehension, fear or worry (obsessions), repetitive behaviors aimed at reducing the associated anxiety (compulsions), or a combination of such obsessions and compulsions.
That is what it tells me about my disorder.
It doesn't say anything about how I stay up every night
until the clock reads 3:33:33 each night because that's the time I am supposed to slepe at.
It says nothing about having to repeat things until they sound right.
Of coruse it won't tell you that I check that i've locked my door 33 times each day
because if it did it'd make you believe I was insane.
But please remember I am not insane
I am just anxiously worried about the simple things.

I periodically Perpetuate
hurricanes all around me
manifesting my illusions
filled with anomalies
commonly I’m far from Common
as these evil forces
completely surround me
crashing down to rock-bottom
longing to no longer be lonesome
but my loneliness is caused
by my compulsions
such impulsive behavior
needs to get out of me, expulsion
creatively i creep
to seem casual and sane
To a world that’s corrupt
and crippled needing a cane
****** and staring
into the eyes of the truth
but with all this proof
we can’t find who is to blame
to some mentally
my mind it is unglued
broken into bits
from so much abuse
daily I’m terrified of torture
I feel like I’ve got nothing to lose
I’m black and blue
Just one giant bruise
Beaten and brought down to my knees
Reluctant to beg. I scream out please
No more
In my tears I’m drowning
A moment of silence as
You Playfully tease
But the kid with the magnifier
Doesn’t hear the ants screams
Only burns and burns
Until their is nothing left
But the shell of a man
Who’s life is a mess

Ex's

I am a part of all of them
even the ones I hate.
Maybe especially the ones I hate.

They are transferred paint
after the fender ******
at the unfortunate intersection
of fate and bad timing.

Not enough damage to make a difference.
Not even enough impression that
you care to be bothered changing your schedule
to repair it.

But every time you leave the house,
and on every lap around the chariot,
you see a trespassing color screaming
of either their bad decision.........or yours.

Sometimes it seems there are more accidents
than pleasant Sunday drives.
I suppose most encounters must be accidents
until we find the uncluttered road to our destiny.

L.E. was life shift
and napkins.
I didn't even know I needed napkins
when I had paper towels in the house.
I Jones for napkins these days.

D.B. was college
and fashion.
Shiny shoes moved her to the soul of my feet.
Now Kiwi polish
smells like foreplay to me.

N.R. was forbidden
and my piano teacher.
I hated practice, she loved to kiss
The oral exam was one of my best finals.
I like tests more than most people today.

J.T. was a cougar
and Tchaikovsky connoisseur.
Maturity was uncovered, along with adult lessons
about carpet knap and fireplaces.
I am Pavlov's dog in the strings of Symphony #6.

L.J. was adventure
and abandon.
She is a grassy carpet over a live train tunnel
in a memory I should regret, but don't.
She is the crossbeam in my permanent smile.

I am an estrogen inspired creation
finding purpose in soft fleshy motivation.
I am who I am
because of their compunctions and compulsions.
They scraped off on me
in the kamikaze journey to fight loneliness.
But in the dive I learned -
grace is humbling when you don't deserve it,
toilet paper has a perfect delivery direction,
I get the right side of the bed,
you shouldn't say anything
you don't want to hear again,
it's my job to take out the trash,
shutting your mouth sooner than you think
is almost always the better choice,
you can never have enough closet space,
and some experiences are so good
that you should never try to repeat them again.

She may be gone forever.
And we may not be able to have
a decent conversation for the rest of our lives.
But God knows
I'll always have napkins.

You tap the lights three times
Because the world around you is dull
And dangerous
And cruel
And the number three is safe
And spontaneous
And comforting
But you look like an idiot tapping the lights three times
And washing your hand five times
And reciting numbers people can not hear clearly under your breath
And they look at you
Like the rare deformity
In the city zoo
Because things that are different
Don't fascinate people like they should
But they scare
And repel
And deflect others
And I can't help but feel alone in a world
Where the tide pushes against me
Trying it’s best to get me out of their vicinity
I don't mean to think over things that are dangerous and scary
And I don't mean to fall into a deep hole of endless sinking
But the words around me are groggy
And thick
Like fog
On a hot humid day
It’s so thick its feels like swimming in quicksand
But I don't know how to swim in quicksand
And the number one rule when caught in quicksand
Is to not panic
Because then you will drown
But no one tells me this when I need to hear it most
And I am the queen of panic
So I struggle
And fight
And flail
Only to fall to an endless doom of deep dark nothing
Where blood is thick like maple syrup
And people are as concealed as concrete
My insides turn into this consistency
Of dog **** and bleach
And it burns my throat
And makes me cry
As I choke on my thoughts
Because by the time I reached the pit of the quicksand
I begin to absorb it
And I then become
The things people call me
When they are most upset with me

I
--
The LORD is asking, “Do you trust Me, child?”
And surely He is worthy of all trust,
but visceral reactions oft’ seem just
in keeping soul’s anxieties well riled.
While panic, shame and dread stir doubting winds,
obsessive, tight, compulsive thoughts pour fuel
into this downward spiraling boil of gruel
where toxic interactions breed more sins.
So for relationships I feel unfit,
and now old interests die and pleasures wane,
as each new hope in Earth’s good brings fresh pain,
where dark depression’s presently my bit.
Yet in this wilderness I hear God call,
“Child, look to Me. I am your ALL in all.”

II
--
I meditate upon the word of God
to heal a mind that’s broken from the fall,
and lying in morn’s bed I now recall
the former paths of fullness I have trod.
I clear the course of tangling debris
that fogs perspective’s distance-viewing sight
and clogs the narrow way which lets in light,
so with God’s truth I’m able to agree.
I gaze toward the future that is sure,
to glory that is promised out of trial.
I push through lying voices of denial,
rememb’ring my inheritance secure.
So healing first begins by sizing scope,
for in true measure I can grasp true hope.

III
---
Long sheltered in the recesses of mind
on pedestals that overshadow truth
are lies which I have entertained since youth
like tape recordings stuck on forced rewind.    
There‘s something of appeal in misbelief,
some comforting, perverted, dressed-up face
which keeps foul strongholds rooted into place
and lets such rotten seedlings harvest grief.  
But I must choose to undermine their message,
uncovering deception’s hidden lairs
whose cultivation grounds for growing tares
leave roadblocks to integrity’s safe passage.
God’s probing, piercing words—what precious gifts!—
can excavate, expose and extract myths.

IV
---
I apprehend these truths in David’s psalm:
“I’m fearfully and wonderfully made,”
and all my days of life are firmly laid
within the sovereign care of God’s own palm.
And yet another voice keeps creeping out.
“You’re too unfit for blessed community,
hence from belonging full immunity
is your dim lot,” says paralyzing Doubt.
For ‘gainst the Word that says I‘m rightly hewn
rub all the bristling edges of myself,
but would one set forever on a shelf
a Bösendorfer piano out of tune?
No, value is a function of creation,
and He who made has promised restoration.

V
--
Restoration’s anchored in redemption,
and my redemption‘s grounded in God’s love.
Nowhere in far reaches man has thought of
could mind unfurl the breadth of such conception.
Sloshing, hesitating in the shallows,
I wander close to shore in Love‘s vast sea.
Then from the swell I hear a coaxing plea
to dive into the deeper wake of hallows.
What‘s this weight that pins my frame from racing
toward His unknown billows of delight?
Do I not trust that He will clasp me tight,
help me bear the fiercest waves I’m facing?
What guile of devils am I heeding here
which keeps me bound by paralyzing fear?

VI
---
Disheartened by my want for firm resolve
to swim toward agápē’s unplumbed depths
for int’macy with Him who paid my debts—
the only One from sin who can absolve,
I wander, wond‘ring what I’ve missed to see
within my comprehension of Christ‘s love
when He would vacate majesty above
and suffer cruelest death to set me free.
They stripped Him, flogged Him, spit, pulled out His beard,
then pressed a crown of thorns down on His head.
They nailed Him to rough cross to leave for dead—
Creator of the world now by it jeered.
In love this traitor by her King was served:
Christ Jesus bore God‘s wrath which I deserved!

VII
----
Considering what labors Christ performed
to buy my freedom off sin’s slav’ry block
that of His fullness, with Him, I could walk
in resurrected life (not just reformed),
can I not trust that He will see me through
each trial, tribulation, sorrow, loss
when He would not forsake me at the cross
but carried all my grief and suff‘ring too?
And just as death‘s cold grave could not contain
my Savior but gave way to watch Him rise,
whatever loss my path has to comprise
shall work for me eternal glorious gain.
So while my courage may still be in lack,
the settled thing is there’s no turning back.

VIII
-----
Wading through fresh tidal pools of mercy
along a piece of coast that‘s not too wide—
among the crags and caves where stragglers hide,
hoping to evade crowd controversy—
I know I‘ll have to move on before long.
But in the warm meanwhile of the day,
I kneel to rest; and as I start to pray,
my heart begins to open to a song—
a gentle, soothing lullaby I’ve known
sung to the tune of ‘Eventide‘ as hymn,
reminder that this life is fading, dim
but that in Christ I never walk alone.
And as I raise the words, “Abide with me…,”
here comes my Shepherd, walking by the sea.

IX
---
What now is this waylaying, sin-sick soul?
Diversional winds from cliffside descend.
Where‘s pressing fire my devotions attend?
Brain‘s robbed of sanity, sleep, self-control.
Jesus comes near numb heart in distraction
and bids me again to clean deadwood out.
Jesus, I‘m desperate, drowning in doubt!
Help me expel what‘s needing subtraction!
Discipline, prudence, wisdom, contentment
can work to restore both body and brain,
while worship will lift locked heart from restraint—
its untethering from woe’s resentment.
I won‘t, without wisdom, taste truest Love,
yet Love holds true keys to wisdom above.

X
--
Mottling mind’s hazed subconscious sockets—
bedecked by ego’s restless crave for fill—
infections grow to permeate my will,
ladening, with dross, affection‘s pockets.
Foul seepage soon coagulates to plaque,
forces clefts which weaken my foundation,
foments psyche’s stormed disintegration
till half-light’s flushing falls to midnight‘s black.
Yet amid murk‘s rotting, rank confusion
with ev‘ry faculty succumbed to rift,
My Shepherd plucks me fiercely from the cliff,
tending thorn-torn blight with Love‘s ablution.
Healing, though, requires my surrender—
all cooperation I can lend 'her.'

XI
---
Jesus asked a question at Bethesda,
the pool by which an invalid was lain,
for thirty-eight lost years left in his pain—
twisted, timed, tormenting, teared siesta.
“Do you desire to be made well?” He asked.
“I’ve none to help me!” was the plaintive cry,
then Jesus spoke miraculous reply
that to get up and walk the man was tasked.
That’s not to say all healing will be found
within this present life of ills and woes,
but still I hear Christ probing through the throes
if I am truly willing to be sound.
Or would I rather lie on crippling bed,
an invalid of spirit, heart and head?

XII
----
Shuffling through some past miscalculations
surrounding toxic breakage of the vines
that ought secure the healthy bound’ry lines  
guarding interpersonal relations—
rememb‘ring my susceptibility
to ego-shuttled, codependent err‘rs
which strain to manage others‘ own affairs
and so invert responsibility—
I ponder if I‘ll ever grow to learn
proper seeds for sowing mutual trust
with vital tools for gently sanding rust
to help stave off a bondship‘s breaking-burn.
One thing I know, that trusting in the LORD
steers love‘s impetus to carry forward.

XIII
-------
“I’m not enough and yet too much,” I've read.
Succinctly that describes my current angst,
and I can‘t justify to war against
these arguments which whirl around my head.
I’ve been told, “You’re just a little intense,”
by many people, not just one or two,
and this they voice clangs manifestly true,
as gaping holes defect my bound‘ry fence.
Voluminous in content and in force,
bestowing as prized gifts what isn‘t sought
or wanted by those for whom gifts are brought,
I falter in my need to change set course.
And where it comes to giving what‘s desired,
real competence seems found to have expired.

XIV
-----
Someone wrote, “true soul mate is a mirror“—
like limelight they‘ll reveal your unseen faults.
Where no one else delights to search your vaults,
“soul mate“ renders time to be apt hearer.
It matters not, was said, that they don‘t stay,
so long as they‘re an agent for reform—
the one who makes you desp‘rate to transform
by breaking heart and making ego fray.
Danger lies in nuanced underpinnings.
I thought I‘d found my soul mate in abuse
and used “he needs my fuel“ as excuse
to take a twisted game to extra innings.
Here I’ll grant these crazed imaginations
were at core demonic machinations.

XV
-----
Casting down romantic schoolgirl notions
that sin-drenched bonds might fashion souls complete,
I drag bewitching grails to Jesus’ feet—
spurning now to drink past guile‘s potions.
As I linger longer in His presence,
I‘m freshly bathed from marring guilt and shame,
reminded I‘m made whole in Jesus‘ Name—
partaker in the fullness of His essence.
Identified eternally with Christ,
secured by His unfailing love through grace,
one day I‘ll walk perfected face-to-face
with Him from whom true life is all-sufficed.
And as I muse, I taste true heart‘s desire—
rekindling, renewed with holy fire.

XVI
-----
Attitude is prime, determinant hinge
on which the door of restoration swings—
deciding what response subconscious brings
and on which morsels mind should bestly binge.
Plenty is dependent on perspective.
Mountain, plain or valley alter sight 
and size by which is measured present, plight.
Simply switching lens can be corrective.
In Christ, Ephesians tells me, I‘ve been raised,
seated with Him in the heavenly realm—
positioned by the One who steers the helm
that Father, Son and Spirit would be praised!
Worship, like a rudder, sets the outlook
to keep me highly grounded in God‘s Book.

XVII
------
Why should I to the worship of false gods
surrender my outlook frivolously?
Idols grab first gaze notoriously,
rob joy as will‘s defenses yield heart‘s nods.
What then? Can I suppose I might steal back
a measure of exuberance through more
skewed genuflecting to gilt calf before—
itself beleaguered, plagued by woeful lack?
Now heed, wayfaring soul of mine, what‘s true:
Creation‘s bounty-goods will make you slave
and with sweet Siren‘s flutes your mind deprave
when to them you lend focus Christ is due.
Lay firm your eyes on Him—pure, restful bed,
cover, fuel, completer, Fountainhead.

XVIII
-------
Wandering down some cobbled, crowded street,
I‘m nowhere headed, rapt in mindless thought,  
and as I saunter south I happ‘ly spot
a friend long-lost but fiercely longed to meet.
Just up ahead, he’s mixed well in the throng
but might be caught if I push through and race!
Heartbeat quickens. Oh, to see his face,
this one with whom I’m sure I must belong!
Yet when I actually seize him and he turns,
I’m devastated, sunk. It isn’t him.
Then moping northbound—dazed, dejected whim—
I stumble on the One for whom heart burns!
How strange, as I had grappled, chased and shoved,
that I’d been running from the One I loved!

XIX
-----
He‘s reservoir for which parched spirit begs,
familial feast cast heart longs to attend,  
elixir fractured psyche craves, to mend,
secure foundation ‘neath soul‘s skittish legs.
Jesus is hearth fire, garden blooming,
joy‘s kiss that welcomes prodigals with tears,
arms’ tender brawn consoling weak ones‘ fears,
shelt‘ring lullaby as nightstorm‘s looming.
Who else can scatter stars, strew mountain snow,
to whet beloved‘s taste for pristine grace?
What other love’s like this, that He‘d embrace
excruciating death to grace bestow?
And best, most faithful lovers of this earth?—
dull pennies next to Christ‘s resplendent worth!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II:
(** — XXXII) [Edited in 9/27-29/21]

**
----
Closing the door on chaining obsessions
requires some short-circuiting of thought
previously allowed to flow uncaught
and forge ever-deepening depressions.
Pathways in my brain can be rerouted
by changing interactions with my world,
observing what’s most easily unfurled—
presently what’s to five senses suited.
‘Mindfulness’ can be a Christian practice
and doesn’t have to rest on Buddha’s shelf—
“awak’ning non-existence of the self”—
or from unseen, eternal things distract us.
True mindfulness is found in gratitude—
joyful, eucharisteo attitude.

XXI
-----
A biblical version of ‘mindfulness‘
is found in 1 Thessalonians 5,
revealing as God’s will that saints should strive
for ever-prayerful joy and thankfulness.
Pond‘rous gratitude staves off resentment,
greed and pride. As was taught to Timothy,
what‘s created and giv‘n by God should be
received in sacred thanks with contentment.
Creation reflects God‘s bounteous glory
and demonstrates His loving grace and care,
so in same grace and glory we can share
each time we recognize Him in our story.
Ten thousand tiny gifts write each day‘s page,
and he who welcomes most is most like sage.

XXII
------
In restoration, elasticity
of mind is a factor to celebrate.
So please don‘t ever underestimate
the wonders of neuroplasticity.
New brainpaths form and old channels falter,
depending on what choices I might make.
Fresh experience of which I partake
will physically help my brain to alter.
Here‘s one great hope I must now remember:
What’s hardwired today can still be displaced,
and thoughts might soon flow on paths greenly graced,
as I feast my soul’s eyes on brain’s Mender.
Bent mindfulness toward Giver and His gifts
best brings joy‘s healing for my mental rifts.

XXIII
-------
Realizations that some obsessions
are desires to vicariously ride
the mindfulness of others who don‘t hide
their own keener sensory possessions,
aptly are aiding to turn my focus
from curiosity to understand
their thoughts, which often‘s led my heart-demand—
want to consume their minds‘ crops like locusts.
What I‘ve perceived as love, concern to know,
empathy for others‘ worlds internal,
might be more escape from mine external—
attempts to hide from life‘s real, present show.
Avoidance wears all sorts of vibrant masks
to keep me blinded to here-moments‘ tasks.

XXIV
-------
Viewing secondhand eviscerations,
as others spill their innards on the page,
may seem the safest way to heart engage—
surrogated life participation.
Substituting others‘ honed perceptions
where I ought learn observance of my own
will keep childlike experience ungrown,
smother creativity’s conceptions.
Social media’s pitfalls lie therein,
along with greater dangers lurking large.
Despite its many goods, there’s needed charge
that gorging on a good thing leads to sin.
Shutting website windows is like trailhead,
opening mountain path to higher tread.

XXV
------
I‘m learning to sit with anxiety
raised by self-denial of habit’s fix,
mindful how my heart solicits tricks  
to alternate for true society.
Discomfort speaks in volumes to soul’s ear
like smoke alarm alerting to a fire.
It tells me, “Quick, investigate! Inquire!
Please find the source of inner burning fear!”
Nervousness as friend might offer insight
if I can hear and listen to its warning,
objectively without the shame-filled scorning
that tends to follow panic-stricken plight.
Practice putting tension in glass cage
to monitor its undercurrent’s rage.

XXVI
-------
It’s time to preach a sermon to myself,
for fears are overtaking me in waves;
and spirit must combat what habit craves—
flesh seeking consolation in false pelf.
Scrutinize what’s underneath such worry.
Do I believe the LORD is still in charge
of details of my life and world at large?
Look to Him. Don’t yield to anxious hurry.
Do I believe He’s with me and He’s good,
a faithful Shepherd tending to each need?
Then look to Him. Don’t drown in fretting’s greed.
Christ’s sheep don’t have to look elsewhere for food.
Each wait is opportunity to grow,
for God has holy riches to bestow.

XXVII
--------
God’s character and sovereign wisdom hem
my life, as His responsibility.
No wrong will steal my true identity,
whatever slips or schemes might spill from men.
Christ’s Ruler over all, but do I let
Him fully reign as Master in my heart?
Do I acknowledge I’m His work of art
and purpose for His hammers, chisels get?
Intimacy and glory are the friends
to which His sanctifying lessons point
and meld together as love’s dovetail joint
whenever I surrender to these ends.
Soul, set your hope on grace to be revealed.
Entrust to God strain’s mysteries still sealed.

XXVIII
---------
LORD, HELP! Why is my mind so distracted?
And why then, letting it be drawn away
for half an hour, am I now okay
to let my compulsions be retracted?
Give in to let go feels like solution,
but know it only deepens the desire
for later curiosity‘s inquire—
grants no satisfying resolution.
Those thirty minutes mindfulness was lost,
yet could it be empowered by the fall,
as I look closer inside to recall
that giving way to habit bears great cost?
I won‘t grow discouraged by the setback
but seek to further understand self‘s lack.

XXIX
-------
Low-pitched, humming anxiousness was sitting
all day inside my torso‘s cavity.
Mindful sensing lent no gravity
to coax the stubborn squatter through outwitting.
Head was tired from too little sleeping,
so frankly seemed to coast and just make do.
Soul felt no fresh excitement by woods‘ view
and lacked bright energy for much guard keeping.
One moral of this story is night‘s rest
must become priority for healing.
Otherwise this shaky default feeling
will grow into another panicked crest.
Though it‘s no excuse to say I‘m tired,
it‘s clear reformed sleep habits are required.

***
------
Changing what’s practical opens a door
to transforming what’s spiritual, mental
and emotionally experiential.
Habit alterations might well restore
enough equilibrium of body,
restfulness, clarity, reason and time
to give me needed aid to better climb
above oppressive moods, both low and haughty.
“Early to bed, early to rise...”could be
one thing to make a world of difference
and welcome back some simple common sense,
to open up new space for setting free.
But for that discipline to take effect,
I’ll also have to curb the internet!

XXXI
-------
Every opportunity for worry
is greater opportunity to trust
that God behind the scenes is sanding rust
from parts of me where fear has made faith blurry.
Without unknowing-gusts to stir the pit
of nervousness inside my helplessness,
I might ne‘er seek my Shepherd‘s faithfulness
nor learn to wait on Him and with Him sit.
These are times of richest growing lessons
when I‘m reminded He is LORD, not me,
and that He works to draw in int‘macy
feeble souls to Him through stretching sessions.
Joy is knowing sure—head, heart and will—
He‘s ever whisp‘ring, “Child, come closer still.“

XXXII
--------
Recapping basic steps to take thus far:
Find sleep (which may mean need for melatonin
to counteract my haywire serotonin),
and overuse of internet I‘ll bar.
Then with restfulness bring mindful thinking—
keen noticing that‘s graced with gratitude
and sets a stronger skyward attitude,
buoys me up against fret‘s downward sinking.
More important still is meditation
upon the word of God‘s indicatives
which lay foundations for imperatives
to follow as prescriptive medication.
Most crucial element preventing fall
is fix my eyes on Jesus through it all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We are separated
Like the sky and the earth

You are filled with potential that once felt like expectation
the ruggedness of a thousand wild stallions running to the course of their strong united heartbeats
and of the sweat and blood that you've merited your endeavors with

I am filled with ribbons of gentle caresses and a familiarity with the unnoticed weight long hair brings
determination like that of the tired
ceaseless tide that rises up again each morning
and of sweet and salty compulsions

We are separated
Like the Heavens and Earth

You are more than the smell of leather and Copenhagen
You are more than the litter of miscellaneous items next to an inevitable jar of change sitting on your wooden dresser
an exact replica of the Skaggs males' before you.
You are more than calloused hands and a beautiful voice that crawls out and harmonizes with cicadas in the heavy heat lingering into the August night.
You are more than the millions of melodies you've blessed us with
More than the far away look in your hazel eyes as you master your guitar
More than your hearty laugh that delights my soul
More than your kind spirit
More than your careful words
More than your wise wife
More than your delicate girl that I hear call me Aunt
But these things stack on top of one another
Like bricks of a building under construction
Beams of titanium not unlike a skeleton protude into the clouds
Ultimately creating the tower I will proudly claim as my older brother
Directing my acquaintances' attention to the structure that
in this moment
unfinished even
eclipses the sun
Casts a shadow over me
a cool blanket of security
I know the closer that I draw to you
the less I will see of the shambles of other buildings that never compared to you
My view of the misleading wooden structures behind you that will be set afire or deteriorate in the constant turning of gears in the clock of time
will be obscured by your sheer splendor

We are separated
Like the sky and the earth underneath me

And just like the two we are connected further down
The horizon
where we will meet is filled with bittersweet triumph painted in the oranges and pinks of the sunset
I turn and see the horizon behind me
where we began
in all of its plainess
Our childhood in a gray
Hillcrest Terrace
Friday night prayer
Denim and pattles
Oatmeal and cough drops
Iced tea and lilac bushes
All threaded neatly into the full drops of rain that fall from you to I
Connecting the ground and the sky
I turn back to the front and admire what I imagine it will be
Our children's loose teeth
and long cramped car rides
Porch swings and homeschool books
Owned land and old trees
Laughter and loyalty
Irony and victory

We are separated
Like the sky and the ground

But we run in the same direction
not interrupting the others' path
I was not there with you when you let the heaviness of the thoughts in your head fall into your awaiting hands as your shoulders shook
Every ragged breath tinged with cheap whiskey
But I have followed suit of my own accord
I was not there with you when you questioned your very identity until you wondered if you would  recognize yourself if he called you by name
But I may have been caught contemplating the same
I was not there with you when you were overanalyzing one of our sisters' new boyfriend's character and gauging his deservingness
But I often did exactly that
And I was not there with you when you fell in love with your beautiful lady and decided to make her yours
But I was praying for it to be her

An endless fire burns inside me
Searching for
courage I won't have
and words I can't find
Until I can heat you with these flames
I will continue to look at you while you are preoccupied and let the words choke in my neck as reverence floods me for this man who
like his father
remains oblivious to his massive impact and priceless company

Got your wire asking me to meet;
The wire that travelled rounds to reach me
Weeks or even months to reach me
After all that while you waited me going
From where I have now traversed abound

Years didn't know what months held within
Months didn't listen to day's throbbing
But we boarded the same space and time
It wasn't crowded with any ‘other ones’
Why didn't you meet me then, me around?
Why didn't you meet me there, me waiting?

Silly or serious, the moments we digressed
You turned your back and switched me off
Making up, I sat by the side, hands feeling
I knew you were pretending asleep;
Then slowly gone to an indifferent self
Why didn't you meet me there, by your side?

Remember all those questions I asked?
Of compulsions and convictions of yore
When you wore an eerie silence as answer
Looking away saying I don't want to respond
I had waited for you there, for long
Why didn't you meet me there with the answers?

Remember all those things you have hidden
Things that changed my takes on life
On trust, respect, love and sorts
You slept over them and woke up afresh
I stood there unslept; carrying scars ever after
Why didn't you sight me so, there?

We were walking along and away,
Not knowing the long pauses we took
Two souls trapped in the same maze
Crossing and nodding days after days
But more as strangers; on a courtesy call
I wish you stopped and met me there.

Now that I have been on this travail for long
With miles to go for that unknown destiny
And a lost way back in labyrinths of mind
Meetings won't be of hearts anymore;
Would set us only on old routes we loathe
So wait no more on your wire...

I create.
I compose.
I don't compare.
I don't compromise.

I'm compulive
On my little computer.
I don't consider.
I don't compete...

I create.


Soul Survivor

Immortal, Immortal, my very own Immortal, can you still even hear me? I wanted to mention another, but instead I am calling out your name.

Immortal. That is how I always called you, little darling; you really are like a little darling, with your bulbous brown eyes and solid red mouth. With your sweet-flavoured jokes and archaic compulsions. You are like a buoyant flower that often speaks from its inside. You smell just like the black sweater you are always encircled in; you smell like one array of strawberries, lavenders, and musk blended into one wondrous potion. Ha-ha. You are wild; you are free; you are the inborn sweat of stormy nature itself. But to me you are the one chosen. You are like a youth that never blossoms; a sky that knows not the litter of adulthood. You are my sweet, my elegance, my butterfly.

But you always failed to catch a butterfly. Once there was one who briefly landed on your shoulder; in an attempt to hurl his little self back into the solidarity of the skies. You sang about the whole world like the moon did; but you were never incarcerated within your universe. Instead, you created even a more passionate one.

Immortal, Immortal, where are but you, my love? I peruse His verses and cite His name every day; in order that you feel my affection and touch even just the slighted shadow of mine, in your dreams. Bygone memories are still rowing within my head; and as their sheen touches my lips; I am sure I shall see you again, when He decrees. Ah, Immortal, how I want to see you become pure; and unite yourself with Him within his fortress, my love flowing beside you, freeing you from this world's ungodly torture.

Obicham te. I miss you, my dear, more than hysteria can assume; nor any disparity can have thought of. My morning dew, my noon, my sunset, all are but attended in thee.

Obicham te. Obicham te. Obicham te.

I miss you so much. Sadly, perhaps you'll never know that.

The ace of hearts
sat down at the table
feeling oh so confident
stares at the three of spades
in his pocket

While the king of diamonds
eyes his diamond queen
in his mind
the ten
hides behind the jack

The queens figured
tonight was the night
they were going to get laid

The deuces were quietly weeping
wondering if another deuce
on the table was going to be played

The ace of hearts
his heart was racing
as the ace of spades
made its way
followed by the ace of diamonds
and a diamond three
a rare drop
was all he could say.

The king of diamonds
to his court he smiled
as the deuce of diamonds
sparkled on the table

The queens, they trembled
wondered if the only thing getting laid
was their heads on the chopping block
this day

The third deuce had joined the pair
his heart was lifted
but still in despair
the deuces looked down the river forlornly
Many have lost it all for more

The ace of hearts was feeling cocky
a warm fullness washed over him
he looked out at his life
figured all he could do was win
he believed in love
sometimes you gotta go
all in
he smiled as he waited at the dock of the river

The king still flushed with diamonds galore
their sparkles blinded him
he joined the ace in the fog
it was either this or that
there were no more games to play

Now faced with two endings
which path to take

The queens had
had enough
on the table they folded
into a fatal swoon

Three deuces
he wavered
his hands were trembling
the game ain't over until
the rent money is gone

Gamblers
some are optimists
some are realists
some are looking for salvation
some are going to play
until they have no more left to pay
looking for death, so they say
driven by compulsions rage

all ask the question
is
this a streak or a slump?

Which was the deuces on this day?
The optimist joins the fray
The realist he folds goes on home to play another day,
All pray.

On your playing field
so far away
what is the play?
Which are you today?

As many endings
as there are
combinations of cards
sometimes it even rains frogs

The room was quiet
the aces full
the king flushing
three deuces - waiting
what to do?
I guess I am the optimist today
the sun is shining after five days of rain

A distant sight
down the river came
as the two of clubs
was beating the water's edge
running and laughing
all the way.