The insecurity came back again
And dealt its glancing blow
Deep inside my heart and mind
I felt the beauty go
It left behind a gnawing ache
A vulnerable question
That bit into a broken place
Worthlessness its intention
I must step back and shake my head
Acknowledge nothing of the type
I am me because my God above
Crafted lovingly the soul inside
Worth is not who validates me or why
It’s not beauty or the lack thereof
Patiently I must deny the lie
That I am found in earthly love
Rather I seek to know my worth
Through knowing Jesus more
Tears will well, as insecurity hurts
But my God will throw it out the door.
The soulsickness came back again
With its tearing, shiny teeth
It crept up close, my will to bend
To whisper in my sleep.
Without a touch, with simple song
The disease crept in my blood
Fear breathed new of life gone wrong
With panic lacing morning’s dew.
I will not yield to agony or feats of terror now
I will bend and buck in panic’s winds while my soul trembles in doubt
But still my hope I place in God
Even as my ill soul sighs;
For even when the world is dead,
my God will never die.
Collapse gratefully to your blankets
With love warm in your chest
Your shelves all lined with trinkets
That see how much you’re blessed
Fold into the numb of sleep
Your mind replaying tunes
A simple calming rhythm keeps
Your dreams sprinkled with dew
The one who loves you holds you close
In dreams you feel their heart;
The world of light beats softly now
While mind and body drift apart.
For happiness does flow about
Like rivers flushed with rain
And Heaven knows the love deluge
Must spread about again;
So spread the joy, and feel the right
Of loving strangers too;
For every day is opportunity
Of friends you never knew.
Count on coincidence,
the fatal human thought
Although sometimes in some events
Accidents exist not.
So proffer life a hand willing
Your heart will set to joy-filling
This world is new through golden eyes
That seek and find the light.
I’m a little bit dark
And occasionally broken
I am whirled and tossed
And sometimes hopeless.
You must understand all that I am
What I am not is weak;
Vulnerable I am hesitant to be
Though I understand its intimacy.
Eventually I will break in two
I will crumble to dust in your embrace
I may cry and words will come at no use
In this place, in the dark, I will hide my face.
Without words, in a torment of emotion and silence
And gritty cries and thickened voices
I am not writer; I am nothing
I am the silence I once spoke artistically of
I will not know how to restore my state of being
When the current of myself has slackened to stone
I will trust you;
And we will turn to God alone.
I am unworthy.
I am simple numbers and you are quantum physics
I am no science at all and you are biochemistry
You are all the good and light that I alone could never be.
Metaphors are weak little things
They dilute the strength of my feelings
Jesus, how could I possibly understand
How much more you are than I can comprehend
If I crumpled in your presence and was tossed into the wind
If I scrubbed at my own stains or tried to clean away my sins
Lord, I’d never be enough
To call myself your friend.
I am not fit to die a gruesome death in your place
Yet you died upon MY CROSS to bring me mercy, healing, grace.
This slave is not fit to die for royalty,
Yet here you are, my King, who humbly died for me.
Imagine a world of innovated creations
All at once, new colors and shapes and dimensions
A taste that’s not spicy or bitter or sour
Or any old flavor we currently devour
A painting of the color of deception
Or the shade of interest, the tone of intention
Colors we’ve never beheld or seen
Not made from the original primary three
Geometry not of lines or dots
Not solids or hollows or graphs or plots
A plush without sides or seams to undo
Instead made from something entirely new.
Imagine our minds with creation a notion
The ability to design with love and devotion
A splendid, a new, for others to enjoy
Not limited to things or paintings or toys
A whole spiraling realm with joy our assignment
Creativity, lightbulbs and time well spent
Imagine this place, a haven beyond death…
God’s Heaven is even more than these words have said.
Blurry pictures are the greatest
Formed in laughter and breathing moments
Unintended to be captured
They are the realest
Of all our painted, winged smiles and chipped egos…
They show the paths down which we wander
They are the ones who knew us then;
They alone will always know.
There is a reason photographers
Try to make us laugh.
To capture a moment
Of eyes lined with smiles
And lips upward bent.
There is a purpose behind the haunting quality
Of photographs in motion
Of men plummeting from buildings
With their silence intact
Their last moments a smear of black
On photo paper that is still
It flows with movement trying to escape, to leave;
Yes, it is still
How precious, then, that I have been shamed
That bitter failures have passed by my face
That I have fallen short is a blessing unnamed
For inadequate hearts are touched by your grace.
In you I am perfect
What an astounding thought!
That this broken body, useless and decrepit,
Would be healed as your words have taught.
The deepest eyes I’ve ever seen,
From the lightest gaze I’ve ever known.
I lose me through jade galaxies,
To call this us my own.
The stars within you cry aching tunes
They dance harmony I never knew
I wonder what I could possibly do
To communicate my love for you
Your heartbeat throbs in calming whispers
Like an endless train on midnight track
It resonates as metal shivers
While lights shimmer in voids of black.
So if it fades from memory,
The completeness we know
Just go back to the song-filled water
Gaze upon the gauzy black
Of skies with lights that echo our path
And listen to the rumbling of the sonorous midnight track.
“Peace, dear one; I will always come back
There is something profound about the night
Something in the beaten air that breathes
It despairs those in love to be enslaved to time
The close cousin of distance, indeed.
There is something about the ink of the dark morning hours
Something that stirs each pen to write
Perhaps exhaustion is what writers devour
With their scrawling words that sink and bite.
There is some sort of reserved energy
In the cold waking hours of early morning
That only the right can assess;
In the cold morning hours, when dawn is hesitant
To interrupt lovers’ ballads in progress;
The sun yawns resolutely
Its splendors shiver truly
Timid rays growing strong and intense;
And the world must then return
To its slow, average turn
And await the creative night