Shabash

Shābāsh (Hindi: शाबाश, Urdu: شاباش, Punjabi: ਸ਼ਾਬਾਸ਼, Bengali: শাবাশ, Telugu: శబాష్) is a term used in the Indian subcontinent to signal commendation for an achievement, similar in meaning to
bravo and kudos.


……………………………………………
a poem writ sometimes, oft,
snaps back,
I was surprising recipient
of a commendation in language
I knew not

the poem spoke well
of broken boundaries,
between in this instance,
Jew and Muslim,
capturing a momentary parting
of the seaways and
walls of misbelief
and mischief,
normally employed
to keep our divisions,
parted perpetually

I’ve decided to begin to
use shabash now,
my ‘go to’ word
from now on,
a small quiet way
to say
well done

it starts with one word,
a stretching hand across
the face fence,
imagining John Lennon’s
imagine-world,
who lay dying when I was
a young father of thirty,
me residing less than a
mile away from each other

little could I imagine then that
poetry would pick me at all,
especially to write of words
in dialects I don’t speak,
but imaging their pastel colorations
flying by in gentle breezes,
eager to be grabbed,
plucked from the air,
tongued and loved

so!
when I say to you,
in the softest spoke,

shabash!

to all of us,
for choosing this path,
using your words in
every dialect,
to spread the imagination
of good will

8-4-2019
10:10 am
S.I.

your "friends" that we meet,
i forget their names,
my calloused palms are greased,
by their  squeezing hands

i remember one's a banker,
or he could have said a thief,
his ******* words were flanked,
by my misbelief

i was held hostage,
you were a smiling drone,
i remember when i lost
to Stockholm Syndrome

their Heirloom Suffix changes,
on tuxedos and trust funds,
my rental wears just fine,
i'm not the danger

shorting stocks on tuesday,
while playing ball in hand,
what a shame to lose me,
busted seams this man

I am not a banker,
I am not a saint,
I cannot to be trusted,
I won't place the blame.
I am not a proxy,
I am an astronaut,
But this distant world you live on,
Is far from my plot

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!

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

Can't* is a word I refuse to comprehend.

Can't does not exist in my vocabulary.
Not if I intend to live fearlessly.

Can't and Fear feed off each other like fire and air.
The two will dance and expand,
Spread to the last corner and inches of my land.

Can and Faith are the words I will invest into my mind, body, and soul.

Can't will not enter into my mind,
For it might sit in my mouth,
And slip off my tongue.

Can't is a poison;
The everlasting **** to my garden.

Can't will destroy every blossom created,
And seize the seeds yet to sprout.

Can't has the power to end the action of planting.
I will never again see a flower, if I let Can't grow.

Can is the remedy to imagination and ingenuity.

Whereas,
Can't impedes and blocks creativity.

Can't eliminates possibilities,
It drains and empties.

Even the most tenacious sea
Could not withstand the
Dehydration of Can’t

Can't ignites negativity, creating an immobilization and inability to try.

Can't creates an ending before there was a chance for beginning.

Can't breeds the misbelief of failure, even if there was never to be a winner.

In many ways,
Can't is the biggest lie created from out mind.

Mis-be-LIE-f



But if I were to look on the inside,

I'd rather give myself a fighting chance,
Then quit before I start
because of the word Can’t


We will be faced with new challenges each day,
New obstacles will arise and come into play

Life has an abundance of what we must overcome,
I would hate to make myself the enemy,
Be the one standing in front of a self-created machine gun.

If I were to approach the word for all that it is
It is after all,
Just a word.

I would let a word dictate and decide
The choices, risks, and chances taken in life.


Seems unbalanced
That one word can have full access
To my thoughts and actions.

There
The infinite possibilities
in the World and Me.

If the only difference between Can and Can’t
Stands an Apostrophe and T,
Then I choose to remove
The contraction entirely.

If you still don’t believe
How destructive Can’t can be
Here are a few synonyms for contraction as taken from Wiki:
“shrinkage, decline, diminution, decrease”.

None of those words seems appealing to me.
All of those words will devour my dreams.

Which is why Can’t is a word
I refuse to comprehend.

If I had had a pocket for every time
you came in the form of a misty leaf,
(sticking to the underside of my

misbelief, drawing attention to
every old logical fallacy that
was, blissfully, missed)

I still wouldn’t have enough to hold
the amount of change we’ve set in motion,
the density of our meaning, nor the

emotions you inflict on me,
from your place on that mountain.
(as if through sorcery);

And I can’t help but imagine you
as some metaphoric fountain,
forever spouting pockets—

The seeds of your actions sprouting
in neat rows of goodwill, and decisive
Indecision, your face half hidden

in some fey magic of mythologized memory
your hair ridden with peaceful fire
and emptiness, your lips set in a

quiet compassion, ashen from
the song of my phoenix lyre,
content in uncontentedness,

knowing that bliss is also not-bliss,
and that every moment spent apart
is a melody of separation: this—

the crafting of some divergent art,
spooky action at a distance, these shadow
figments mere resistance to our own

true nature: the heart’s desire, sown
in every field, every stable, this very
word, and all the fables that persistently

insist that perhaps there’s one more thing
I’ve missed. So I’ll look once more (through
that gateless gate, perceptions door) at your

sleeping face, the oceans floor, clouds weeping,
that distant shore of sandy grace:
outside time, inside space.

And again
it is time for lies
small, careful constructs
delivered in the interest
of self-preservation
in hopes of mollification
of the claustrophobic inquiries
of dear, devoted friends

so it is once more
down the rabbit hole
escaping into a world
of misbelief
buffered in gentle,
worthless cloaks
of half-truths that provide
a deceptively soft
and comfortable place
to be silent and still
until honesty loses
some of its brutality

Bad habit

the moment
you first sprinkled stardust
in my hair
tenderly
caressed my cheek
the husky morning light
throwing faint shadows
bed sheets scattered
hearts caught
by surprise
then shattered
into shimmering bright
as pre dawn
had me forlorn
lost in your
sweat
my tears
kissed away
your tongues mixology
feeding back to me
my tears and my ***
breeding blending
alchemical lust
the birth of
a bad habit
born out of
a good love
this little bird
stuck
in your gilded cage
would become
locked out by
your inner rage
as madness descended
four lives upended
passion
fighting the good fight
biting back against the strain
of this bad bad habit
loves first bloom
birds singing
before the sun rose
you tearing down
all my defences
raw desire
the fire the fire the fire
in your *****
becoming my ******
scribing incantations
secret spells
of love
of dreams
of wanting
with your ***
on my belly skin
glistening in the
early morning sun
when did the love
mutate to ownership
passion became obsession
your misbelief
my imagined transgressions
tearing the silk at its seams
then on your knees
begging to
redeem redeem redeem
too many heartbeats too late
the light snuffed out
stuffing the ****
in loves spout
sweet turned bitter now
just spit it all out
loves lamb slaughtered
throat cut and bleeding out
spitting my teeth on the floor
of our house built on 'love'
feeling my jaw crack splinter
under the strong hands
that once held me "safe'
'loved' me
wed me
then bled me
dry of all hope
love hanging
choked on the rope
kicking me
to pieces
and me
kicking this
bad bad habit

clean.


J.C. littlebird 03/07/2019

Your
Always
The One
Who Held
My Pain
Deep Inside
Tamed It
As If It
Was Your Own
So It
Wouldn't **** Me
Inside
Your Heart
Knew My
Pain
Your Tears
Always
Carried
Your
And My
Sadness
Away  
Depression
Was Your Middle
Name
The Wolf's Eye
Was Always
Different
Was Always
The One
Who Knew
From Same
From Different
Never Could You
Be Another
Eye
Another
Star In
The Sky
Where
My Tears
Align
In The Sky
~Paris Styron~

Your Tears
Always,
Hanged
By Sorrows
Of The Night
Grief That
Always
Grief
That Fills
Your Day
With Fear
And Illusions
That I
Can
Never Unfold
~Paris Styron~

When You
Unfold
My Note
Of Pain
You Unfold
It
With Care
That Almost
No One
Can See
Where
No One Seemed
To Care
You Almost
Could Not
Bare
My Tears
Down My
Face
With
The
Undead
On The
Ground
Where Fear
And Death
Have No
Bounds
[~Paris Styron~]

Your
Blood Always
Spoke
To Mine
Always
Fear And
Death
Made You
Bleed  
Of Guilt
And Shame
You Always
Had Pain
That Would
Never
Go Away
Until
I Flew
With Your
Wings
I Noticed
They
Could Not
Fly
Without
Me
Without Hope
Without
Happiness
That Always
Lead
To Shame
And You
Died
Inside
Day By Day
Night By Night
Day By Night
You Always
Flew
In Despair
In Depression
Which Always
Kept
The Soil
Growing
And
The Graves
Crying
Your
Pain Is
My Command
I Am Used
To It
[~Paris Styron~]

The Walls
I Write
On Always
People
Look Away
In Misbelief
In Mis' Of Shame
Bloodly Paws
Always Perfume
Your Thoughts
With Guilt
Of Laughter
Of Shame
That We Cannot
Wash Away
Our Pain
Tears Always
Hanged
Never Noticed
Always
Ignored
To Be
Insane
And Left
Out Of
The Pack
Because
Your Face
Is Black
Because
Your Face
Is Worn Out
And So
Are Your
Memories
Imprinted
Never Forgotten
In The Night
You Always
Howled My
Heart
Which People
Like Poison
Darts
Cut You Down
In The End
Darts
Makes Your
Blood Run
Stale
[~Paris Styron~]

Your Childhood
Broken
Away From Peace
From Happiness
From Joy
To Despair
To Pain
To Hopeless
To Hold In
That Shame
Never Could
You Be Sane
With Yourself
Again
[~Paris Styron~]

The Tears
Drops Fill Up
Their Glasses
Worn Out Places
Worn Out
Faces
Had An Early
Of The
Daily Races
Happy Birthday
Happy Birthday
Your Heart
So Black
So Black
You Never
Wanted
Worn Out
Memories
Worn Out
Faces
Of Pain
Of Sorrows
Of Grief
That Always
Bleed Away
The Day  
And Bleed
Through
Happiness
And Joy
And Eats
You Away
Like Acid
It Paints
Its Name
Guilt
And Shame
You Must
Always
Be Alone
[~Paris Styron~]

Scars
Pass On
And Pain
Is The
Memory
That
Keeps
The Soul
Caring
Because
They Do Not
Want
That Scar
To Be
Another
One To Own
Their Love
One
And Be
A Hook
That Digs
Into
Their Souls
[~Paris Styron~]

Your Tears
Are Scars
That Cannot
Be
Ignored
Be
Silent
You Always
Have Stars
That
Speak Your
Name
Only One
Aligns
My Heart
My Soul
Always
Until
The End
[~Paris Styron~]

Everywhere
I Step
I Think Of
You
My Heart
Turns Into
Stone
When I See
You,
You Show Your
Delicate
Love
You Hold My
Pain
It Hangs
On A Wall
That Keeps
Me Sane
You Hold Me
Like A Child
To Keep
Me Young
Because Life
Is Too Short
For Grudges
For Stress
For Problems
The Only
Meaning In
Life
Is Love
~Paris Styron~

Penetrate the Galaxy your memory the enemy
The point so meaningless
bones shudder
Misbelief, death is release
Carbonate energy
Space travel legacy

The king is dead he never rose
from his resting place, chose
instead to be the embodiment
of a false fable writing the copyist.

Within a cave of delusions that kept
the image of false motives hidden.
An off spring of a method not unkempt.
this version the kept reasoning now forbidden.

Delusions of two reflections not seeing that
one is not a king but a falsehood sat on divided chat.
Neither were a failing, but reflections of a belief
that were conflicting upon a tree with a twinned leaf.

But when one must fall, both will simultaneously
greet the earth with a momentary spontaneously.
Always will one be ahead of the other claiming divine
leading, and others follow this moment of design.

But every king has a past that is woven in misbelief,
for all false kings can bring is an unethical belief
that they are the true monarch of a world run by many
where brothers & sisters there just spinning a single  penny

Your Pawprints
Always
Infeceted,
Frozen,
In Pain
With Time
Never Could
Fine
The One
Like You
The Star I
Could Never
See
Again
In The Hail,
Of The Snow,
Your Pawprints
Always
Leave
A Trace
Of Pain
That I
Always
Unfold
With Care
That Horrify
Others
In Misbelief  
Of The
Harash Truth
That Always
Leads To
Isolation
Because Some
Wolves
Don't Understand
That Which
Others
Would Reject
Would Savage
For Any Purpose
To Only Help
Themselves
I Look Into
Your Pain
In Your Pain
In Your Eyes
It Freezes
My Soul
And My Heart,
My Tears
Always
Washes
Away Your
That Always
Makes Us
Closer
Love Until
The End
~Paris Styron~

My life isn't always filled with sadness and grief.
I just have this bad habit of only writing when I'm hit with mental illness and misbelief.
When I inhabit this place of mind, the only way to escape is writing until I’m able to leave this behind.
Everything gets intertwined, I get the feeling of hatred towards humankind.
But all of this does not last, it goes away and then it comes back.

Here comes the pain,
the emotional turmoil inside.
Wishing it would all go away,
all my eyes want to do is cry.

There is no savoring of life,
dreams have disappeared .
Which way is it to unlock peace?
Where is this peace anyway?

Look unto the heavens,
the stars in the night sky.
Peace has a way of finding the yearning heart,
good things will happen for ones down and out.

All the pressures of the day will melt,
the heart is rejuvenated in accordance.
The passage seems to be a rhyme of life,
A praise lifted up into the air.

Contrary to misbelief,
all one needs is a little faith.
The seeds that are planted grow,
it doesn't moves mountains,
but it sure moves with a purpose,
something dreams are made of.

Writing isn't about how much
Anger you can accumulate.
It's about heart and such,
And at that, passiom agate.

Rage within one's soul,
Provides a lot of drive.
But reversing without control,
Is nothing at which to strive.

Sorrow seeping through the seams,
Seamlessly slithering into your dreams,
As you start to slip away from reality,
And realize its lob-sided lethality.

Misbelief can be misleading,
Leaving your heart utterly bleeding,
Creating holes that bore far,
And serum that cannot soothe the scar.

Fear makes one easily fickle,
And become rusty and rotten.
And just as one discards a pickle,
So too, you become forgotten.

So, be not what comes not naturally,
For you are created beautifully.
And in the state in which you are joyful,
Go forth, and flourish, and be fulfilled.

My beliefs are what make me strong
My beliefs set fire to passions that spark
Send flames
A smoke signal
To the ones i harm
Tells them to come home
Run away from the shame
The blasamist
The pain
Run away to the light
So I can hold you warm
And tell you it's alright
Keep faith
In the unknown
It is your friend
It's,time to
Tell you the truth
It's all misbelief

As the path  less traveled ls so
Truth makes all the difference.
It is not open to dispute, does
Not permit liberties but Is. Not
A question for our free will to
Navigate its own course upon
Did not Christ say not my  will
But Thine be done-So what the
Lord command we cannot go
Against though we may think
Otherwise and think our selves
Great sinners and make show of
Our learning by punishment to
Ourselves and others for having
Learned too late the biter fruit of
Disobedience.  God did command
That in the Garden of Eden  to our
Oldest kin, Adam and Eve that they
Should enjoy every fruit of the garden
But must not eat of the tree  known as
The Knowledge of Good and Evil.
Note He did not say you may but you
Should not.  It was a Command-So  a
Truth.  and of course as children Adam
Persuaded by Eve whom he loved
Imagined that for love"s sake he
Could disobey and Eve persuaded
By the evil serpent that she could
Did
Indeed in their imagination trangress
Such is the imagination of children
Fairytale of  misbelief piled upon
Generation after generation until we
Have the Grand Illusion that is the world
Of sorrow that we know as real but is not
Yes there is the pride that we could know
Good and evil and make wise judgments-
There on and so be masters of justice. God
Laughs and forgives this foolishness and
For our sakes tries to let us know that it is
Not so Not- the real real that we are playing.
A make believe tragedy and we do not know it
So suffer   over and over for Imagined sins





Keep on




Till the  
Resurrection at the last syllable of
Recorded time
Makes it a tale told by an idiot


Keep on


Then

Still innocent as babes-
of good and evil knowing
Nothing but our travails of imagination.
Having seen the dream signs know that
You dream.  Now Imagine the Truth
I know you will say: I always knew it.


For that is God's Command:  The Truth.

Blessed Be Our God fount  of all Goodness
That is known for all time forever and ever

-some ghosts refuse to stay in the past-

Bad habit

the moment
you first sprinkled stardust
in my hair
so tenderly
caressed my cheek
the husky morning light
throwing faint shadows
bed sheets scattered
hearts caught
by surprise
then shattered
into shimmering bright
as pre dawn
had me forlorn
lost in your
sweat
my tears
kissed away
your tongues mixology
feeding back to me
my tears and my ***
breeding
blending
alchemical lust
the birth of
a bad habit
born out of
a good love
this little bird
caught
in your gilded cage
would become
locked out by
your inner rage
as madness descended
four lives
upended
passion
fighting the good fight
biting back
against the strain
of this
            bad
                      bad
                                habit
loves first bloom
birds singing
before the sun rise
you tearing down
all my defences
raw desire
the fire
             the fire
   the fire
in your *****
becoming my ******
scribing incantations
of love
of dreams
of wanting
with your ***
on my belly skin
glistening in the
early morning sun
when did your love
mutate to ownership
passion
become obsession
your misbelief in
imagined transgressions
tearing the silk
at it's seams
then on your knees
begging to

redeem

redeem

redeem

too many
heartbeats
too late
the light snuffed out
stuffing the ****
in loves spout
sweet turned bitter
now
just spit
        spit
        spit
                  it all out
loves lamb slaughtered
throat cut and bleeding out
my teeth & blood
on the floor
of our house built on
'love'
feel my jaw
     crack
           splinter
under strong hands
that once held me
"safe'
'loved' me
wed me
then bled me
dry of all hope
love hanging
choked on the rope
kicking me
to pieces
and me
kicking this
bad
         bad
                   habit

clean.


© J.C.

We feel those changes
as we're not used to live in this
we still hide our pain that manipulates us
we're still on the process of knowing our
disposition and misbelief
against everything,
I choose you despite my fears.