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Every year more and more is scraped off of me,
and for the past years when I feared the scrapping would finally reach the inside,
I would begin to shake because I wondered if that time when the scrapping reached the core I would find out I was hollow and collapse into myself.

But these very years have scraped at the needless thoughts, the needless chases and the needless feelings of inadequacy and the more they brush my surface the  shinier and more solid my core seems
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2017
There are times when the Lord will take from us every familiar thing and send all the others away to have us to Himself, uprooting and dismantling our earthly anchors until we find no safe place of attachment but to Him alone. And though we search feverishly to secure another, He will faithfully cut off our efforts at every pass and every attempted by-pass, almost as though we could see them being escorted out the door, marching one after the other in file and possibly taking our sanity with them. “No, not another one! Where are they all going and why am I not invited?” But it is His alone to give or not to give, to give and take away.

The One Who took up the cross and took the cup of the Father’s wrath for us has the absolute right to take anything and everything from us at any time for whatever reasons might please Him. But know this for certain: concerning His redeemed, those reasons will always involve two things—glory and intimacy. They are the overriding answers to every lingering question of “Why?”.

But if we fail to understand His glorious and intimate intentions we may misconstrue our losses to be a sign that He is actually withdrawing His affection from us. The very things which He is doing for love’s sake to perfect our pathway to intimacy might be taken instead for obstacles blocking it, causing us to doubt His love. We could not be more wrong, but sometimes it's so hard to see through the veil of pain.

For it's a strange and bewildering thing to feel that you belong to no place and no person in this world, to have nowhere to call home and no one to share it with if you did. A severe untethering indeed that though meant to prepare us for flying can seem to us more like drowning. The sobering truth is that none of us belong to this life or the things of this earth; all sense of it is only an illusion, and pain and loss are simply the dispelling of the myth—the rude awakening from a bewitching dream we once had. But oh how we fight the disillusionment.

Maybe we remember a time when we had prayed to be refined, to be made more like Jesus, but we didn’t know it would have to hurt so bad and take so long and look so dark and feel so lonely. Even if we have understood and embraced His call to deeper intimacy we may after a while, when nothing seems improved either around us or in us, start to resent our belonging to such a determined and jealous Lover, though He is doing exactly what we had once asked Him to. We may start to think we can no longer bear anything except that which superficially distracts us from our grief. We may even start to give up hope, for if not anchored exclusively “behind the curtain” and if repeatedly crushed it threatens to **** our hearts for good should we have to face one more disappointment.

We may feel very much like we are flailing around in a deep and darkening ocean, repeatedly pulled under by the powerful tow and thrashing waves of overwhelming emotion and continuously knocked back by the brutal winds of confusion. Yet we can still see the unshakable boat of faith and truth standing solidly only a small distance away. We know it is real and that if we could just reach it we would be safe. We hear someone shouting through the din, “Just hold onto the boat! The boat will save you. Look beyond your feelings and walk by faith. Hold onto truth!” But can’t they see that as hard as we may try we have no strength to swim to the boat? Can’t they see that we are sinking?

And so we are left with nothing but to cry out to Jesus, to cry out to Him to bring the boat to us, to come Himself and rescue us. Do we have that much faith? Enough to just say, “Jesus, help me! I’m drowning!”? Enough to see that He is our only hope and nothing else matters apart from Him?

Because when we do, we will understand that this hope in Him alone is the very lifeline by which He will pull us to safety—back to faith, back to truth, back into His intimate arms of love, back into a peace which passes all understanding and into a joy that gives us strength for the journey.

As difficult as it can be in our grief to hear the Lord whispering truth to our hearts above the constant clanging of our feelings, we must now more than ever choose to take the time to be still and seek our soul’s rest in Him and in His promises. But how amidst such clamor and confusion?

Simply decide to cast your cares on Him, if only for the moment, by climbing into His Shepherd’s lap to look and loiter and listen. And if you have no energy to climb up, then just lift your arms and ask Him to pick you up. And if you haven’t the strength even for that, only raise your eyes toward Him and you will soon find your sanity restored as you behold His love for you. Ask Him earnestly to let you see it afresh, for perhaps you have been temporarily blinded from recognizing it.

Stop everything; cease just for this minute from all worry, anxiety, fear and anger. Forget the past and do not look toward the future. Focus only on this moment right now, as if you knew it would be your last, as if it were the very one to lead you into eternity. Inhale like fresh air the powerful promises of God’s Word. Soak in their grace and drink in their healing, keeping your eyes fixed on Jesus’ face. Can you see Him longing for you? Exhale every distraction, conflict and uncertainty of this world. Then listen... What is He saying to you right now? Wait for it, then let your soul rest in it, and let go of everything else. Rest in the grace of this present moment and in His strong, sure arms. Let Him take care of you, wounded one, for you are His beloved, and He longs to tend your broken and needy heart.
~~~

"Find rest, O my soul, in God alone;
    my hope comes from Him.
He alone is my rock and my salvation;
    He is my fortress, I will not be shaken."
~ Psalm 62:5-6

"The LORD is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer;
    my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge,
    my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.
I called to the LORD, who is worthy of praise,
    and I have been saved from my enemies.
The cords of death entangled me;
    the torrents of destruction overwhelmed me.
The cords of the grave coiled around me;
    the snares of death confronted me.
In my distress I called to the LORD;
    I cried to my God for help.
From His temple He heard my voice;
    my cry came before Him, into His ears...
He reached down from on high and took hold of me;
    He drew me out of deep waters.
He rescued me from my powerful enemy,
    from my foes, who were too strong for me.
They confronted me in the day of my disaster,
    but the LORD was my support.
He brought me out into a spacious place;
    He rescued me because He delighted in me."
~ Psalm 18:2-6,16-19

"We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. It enters the inner sanctuary behind the curtain, where Jesus, who went before us, has entered on our behalf..."
~ Hebrews 6:19-20a
V L Bennett Aug 2018
In the air, floating just next to the window
solidly constructed
as sure as the golden highway
stretching from Frisco across the Bay
looking square
as the acres of boxcars
north on the interstate
on the south side of Chicago,
it's all atoms...

This morning my son postulated to me a so-far unrealized condition
relating to matter transmitters and, probably, hyperspace. "What
would happen, " he asked, "if some guy transported himself inside a big rock?"
Indeed.
Putting on my ears, I considered the situation.  Would the hypothetical solid mass of rock give way, shudder just enough to allow the insertion of a soft, squishy human being?  Or would the spaces in their respective atoms--rock's and human's--intermesh neatly with each other?  Molecular integration?  But such a challenge to the atomic bonds holding the things together might result in a nasty atomic accident. Would that leave a human-shaped void inside the solid rock, a mold exact down to the finest details of skin texture and even eyelashes? Imagine the crystal-filled waters seeping down to find such a hole--Behold!! Geode Man.

Holding my silver pen extended
like a rapier before me,
I dissect the wispy chunks
of smoke. The balance of air
that gave them form
is destroyed.  They are
no more.
refresh mesh Sep 2018
i love your versatility
you pair as charitably as a free agent
i want your bold bits and knobby
ends on my tongue mid-conversation
i like you soft or solidly
jealous green or dark hibernation
I admire your growth's autonomy
with capacity for toleration

i always cook it sloppily
blinded by the destination
i like to go for quantity
when i'm feeling most impatient
i know that it's an oddity
to get off on steamed inflation
i have considered that possibly
it's just about my own temptation

it's not worth the vagrant comedy
to divulge that hot equation
i'll cycle back to ecology
since i don't want medication
i can believe in botany
and your scents of motivation
i can't explain it audibly
just that it's instant gratification

i'm lucky that gastronomy
is so easy with your engagement
i think your critics are a monstrosity
to the spirit of entertainment
i don't think you need a recipe
you're good fuzzy, chunked or shaven
i'm a hungry wanton holly
firmly stalked in imagination
Jessica Jan 2019
I stand next to you as the timer counts down
In Atlanta
5...4...3...2...1...
Happy New Year!!!
You walk away as you text someone
I’m left standing alone, and immersed
In the center of the room
Solidly, solely accepting you
I can imagine how awkward
You feel
As I look down at your shoes
Hmmm...your red vans, your rip jeans
Your eyes, I can’t see
Hold my hand and calm me
Remind me what it’s like to have
You in my car
(I have a bag of your clothes in my backseat)
Listening to music and singing
As you’re aware of my mind
Reeling with worry
You were in a hurry, Rose
Where’d you go?
I use to count the days as if you had them
Numbered
5...4...3...2...1...
Eléa Oct 2019
what to do with the ones
who shudder gladly into multiplicity
but cannot bear to stand
without
the solid hand of an other

after
being lifted from their own
lands of cloud
(we were gods there, we remember) ;
in glancing brightness shafts above
trendy canals worth nothing without

the sky playing with bland echoes
of batting lashes, nudging peach skin knees
a gasp here, and a crooked smile become
in us, there
swirls of grey batting the sun with orifice
darkness and

we are, sudden, feet on the ground
dancing between shoes some good oney
a - peice
shining dark blue and laces that could be tied
just right; and trip on us, when we
don't agree with the rythm just right and

and we realise we wear marroon dark heels
just to reach a little up and
distinguish the batting of the blue sky we  :

we remember ;; to compare with
a solid grown hand, with other magic in his fingers;
veins always pumping, lifting, solidly
extrapolating;

and so we exert simple bullets knocked down
speech;
with soft lips, soft hips,
we, steep in the negation of the wood, you
offer,
(we remember woods of bluebells, myths hovering in
dust disappearing into a backgroud of evergreen)
and we take petite steps, and we petite feet,

and speak these -  we love you:
and it's true, but, you know
we won't forget the realm of clouds  ;
(we lifted your knickers, darling,
            and laughed
solumn songs of sublimity,  
there
Ksh Nov 2019
In high school, I'd wear Converses.
Or Chuck Taylors, whatever you called 'em.
I'd remember going to a new school, proudly wearing
a pair of Converses with the same blue shade
as my new school's uniform skirts;
how I'd attend Phys Ed with the same trainers,
even though it wasn't a good idea to use them
for physical activity.
I remember riding in the back
of my father's motorcycle as we
did errands around the town,
and he'd indulge me by parking near
a road chock full of thrift stores --
and we'd go in, under a false pretense of
"just checking, just a quick look-around"
and my father would surprise me
by buying me a thrifted pair.
They were either pink, or magenta,
and I was at that age of rebellion --
"no girly colors", I'd shout --
but I'd always wear them out,
and it always made my dad smile.
I once came home with my friends
without telling my father,
and he was out in the front porch,
half-naked as all Asian dads are,
and he was clipping some brand new Converses
on the wash line to dry.
I had been so embarrassed, because this
was the first time that my friends
had seen my father, had seen my house
but all they could see was how kind he was
by surprising me with a new pair.
I had a total of seven pairs of Converses,
one of them he paid his sister to buy for me
from the United States.
I keep them in a box, under the sink,
because even though my feet have grown,
I'm still unable to sell them nor give them away.

In college, I wore Palladiums --
big, thick, chunky lace-up boots
that looked out of place in a college freshman's closet
and more at home tied by the shoelaces to a soldier's bag.
I've moved to the capital city,
away from my little brother, away from my father.
I lived with my mother, who worked and moved
until her body gave out and she'd have to take some days to rest.
She bought me my first pair when I asked;
because she told me that
"first impressions last; but shoes are always what stays in a person's mind",
which was funny seeing as how
Palladium was, first and foremost,
a company from the age of the Great Wars
that manufactured the tires fitted for airplanes;
and that now, decades later, rebranded themselves
as a company with a recognizable design --
channeling urban life, heavy endurance,
and the soul of recreating one's image,
rising from the ashes of the past like some sort of phoenix.
My mother had wanted me to fit in,
yet be unique at the same time,
in a world that moved so fast that I had to run just to keep up.
And she'd buy me pairs not as often as my father did,
but it was always in celebration.
Either for a job well done, a reward for good grades,
or simple because it was my birthday.
Those Palladiums became my signature shoes,
and I was the only one to wear them
inside the university.
At one point, I was recognizable because
of a particularly special pair --
Palladiums that were bright, firetruck red
and had the material of raincoats --
that people would know it was me
even from far away, just by the color of my boots.
I had six pairs in total; all heavy, all colorful,
with different textures and different price points,
and my mother bought me these special shoeboxes
which we stacked til the ceiling, right beside
her own tower of heels for special occasions,
because that was what defined us.

I've started buying my own shoes,
and I'm not as brand-exclusive as I was before.
There's a pair of no-names, some banged up Filas,
even a pair of Doc Martens I'm too afraid to bust out.
They're also not as colorful; because I know that
black pairs and white pairs are easier to style
in any day, in any weather, with any color or material.
Most of them were for everyday use, and it required
a certain level of comfort, a certain level of durability,
that was worthy of that certain retail price.

I look at my shoe rack, and realize
that I am not as colorful as I once was.
I do not have that sense
of colorful, wild, down-on-my-luck rebellion
that my father put up with in my adolescent years.
I lost my drive of being
a colorful, unique, instantly recognizable upstart
as my mother had taught me to be.
My shoes have no stories to tell,
no personality to express --
a row of blacks and whites, the occasional greys.
And when I look internally,
it's the same, monochromatic expanse staring back at me.

I am in a place where
I am everywhere and nowhere at once.
I can't tell whether my feet
are solidly on the ground,
or pointed to the sky, toes wriggling in the clouds.

In an ever-growing shoe rack
filled with old, ***** Converses,
and heavy, attention-seeking Palladiums,
I choose a comfortable pair of plain, white sneakers
and head out in the open,
paving my own way.
I take comfort in the fact
that it's just the beginning.
That I am at the start
of my designated brick road,
an endless expanse before me.
My shoes will acquire color,
my designs will develop taste,
my soul will be injected into the soles of my feet
with every step I take --
forward, backward, it doesn't matter
so long as I keep moving.
I hate it when people think suffering is wrong. Learn to pick up your **** suffering, and bear it! And try to be a good person so you don't make it worse! I know you have a lot of reasons to be resentful about school, heck, even your existence! We know it's going to involve a lot of pain, and lots of it is going to be unfair! But acting out everything you're complaining about will only make things infinitely worse, try it. That's why we have the saying that hell is a bottomless pit, because some stupid ******* could figure out a way to make it a lot worse. Learn to accept it! This is what the real world looks like, full of suffering. What can you do about it? Try reducing it! Start with yourself! Get your **** together solidly so that people can rely on you! Square up with what's wrong with you, you know it if you'll admit it. You know that there are a few things you can polish up a bit, deal with it and maybe you can start managing your present insufficient condition. Don't be a **** victim. Shine yourself up a bit so your eyes will be a little bit more open, shine it some more and maybe you might be able to bring your family together instead of having to be that spiteful, neurotic room mate that you're doomed to spend the whole semester with. Be humble about your deficiencies. Figure out how you can make peace with your siblings. You'll get there somehow, and when your life starts functioning you'll find out "Well, that kind of relieved a little bit of suffering", at least that reduced the opportunities for spiteful revenge. When you little by little start to get your **** together, you'll get acquainted with it because you're doing something difficult. You're wiser, so maybe you could point out a tentative finger out there beyond your family and try to change some little thing without wrecking it. We students are so conditioned to think that we can just fix anything, even something as complex as our society. Well, try to fix a military helicopter and see how far you get with it. You can't just whack it with a wrench and be like "Oh look, it's better!" NO! Life is complicated and to fix things are hard! We overcome suffering by being a better person, that's how you do it! It's hard because it takes responsibility. If you want a meaningful life everything you do matters! Unless you don't want meaning and not take responsibility, because who the **** cares? You can wander through life doing whatever your want! Gratifying your short term impulses for who knows how short it's going to be. Ask yourself if you want to get stuck in meaninglessness, but no responsibility. You'd quickly realize how the majority of your being are pursuing meaningless things. Because the fact is, pursuing meaningful things means taking on suffering. You have to put yourself together in the face of that, and that's hard! When you really get to the bottom of things, you'll realize that you need to make the choice to put yourself together. Transcend your suffering and see if you can be some kind of hero. Be that person who'll make the suffering in the world less. That's the way forward.
Eléa Oct 2019
what to do with the ones
who, glanced at the right speed we
see them, shudder gladly into multiplicity
but cannot bear to stand in any

act of publicity;
  without the knowing gesture of
the solid hand of
  an other, after

being lifted from their own
lands of cloud

(we were gods there, we remember) ;
in shafts giving golden to
trendy canals worth nothing without

the sky playing lifting each bland echoe
of batting lashes,
nudging peach skin knees a gasp here


a crooked smile pasted
on a passing wall of the morning walk
make

in us,      there
licks of grey batting the sun with orifice
darkness and, and blinding whiteness
of the vast tilting gameboard
leaning into us, breaching when

we are, sudden, feet on the ground
dancing between shoes some good-money
a - peice
shining dark blue varnish and laces that could
be tied
just right; and trip on us, when we
don't agree with the rythm just right
(we were dancing slight along
hidden angles, checkered,
that even with suggestions, a
soft heel pressing your vulnerablity,
you, still, would never remember.)

and we look down to see
we wear marroon dark heels
just to reach a little high and
distinguish the length of the blue sky we  

with
this solid grown hand, of yours,
with an other magic in his fingers;
veins pulling, streaming, lifting, solidly;
extrapolating;

and so we exert simple bullets knocked down
speech; in feigned purple light,
with soft lips, soft hips,
we, steep into a negation of the wood, you
offer, gliding the lacquer,
(we remember woods of bluebells, of myths
hovering their shapes in dust
laughing disappearing into a backgroud of ever-green)
and we take petite steps, and we petite feet,

and speak these -  we love you:
and you know,  it's true,    and you know

we won't forget the kingdom of clouds  ;
(we lifted your knickers, darling,
            and laughed
solumn songs of sublimity,  
        there
Lim Peh Dec 2018
Don't just listen,
try to hear.
Within the mirror,
The eyes are clear.

No buts, maybes, ifs or whys.
Doesn't matter how hard you try.
When there is no point,
of which you can reference.
To which solidly you have already defined.

"What?" is the question to ask,
For identity of that which brings you sleepless nights,
and anxious days, and hurried breathing, your heart is beating, the hands are shaking, the mind is begging, for the moments of which finally you stop.

For it is seperate, after all.
It identifies as I, me, and my.
Oblivious to that which is deep inside,
The primal emotions, of wanting to thrive.

What is happening?
The pouring of soul, from deep within, the rivers will flow.
But guard your self, from the depths of unconsciousness.
And cherish the precious moments of thinking alone.
The point when you face what you've always feared, you will be glad and you will cheer.

When you finally see it for what it is,
Fear of the Unknown.
Yeh nobody really wanna die just want the pain to stop and that pains paralysis of choice plus much more! Order now at 1800-youllfindthemeaningeventuallysochillmyguytakecarebruv

— The End —