Joy is found
in every
Christmassy winter snow.
What you seek to find
is hidden deep inside
your melancholy pride.
The sadness may spark
beauty in a world so dark.
Know, your willingness to pay
it forward for a day
could hand the hopeless
a new heart of gold.
In the unknown we see
a face for each story untold.
We find the willingness to give
to those with lives tough to live.
So, Share Your Sadness
with those who seek
new beginnings
and times less bleak.
I am not who I once was.
I am awake to the truth
of bitter mistakes.
Let go-
how I would love to let go
but the memory
of wayward wrongdoing
digs deep within,
burrowing in my brain.
You have grown old
-withered like an unwatered houseplant.
See, I am not like you
I am outside in the weather,
and the sun, and the rain
and the rocky terrain:
They were my friends,
when, on you, I could not depend.
I Am Not Alone!
Right for me,
what is right for me?
The sting of lost faith
touches each tale
I’ve ever told. . .
Been told before-
I am not unique
I am a relative.
I’ve strung together
every sad story
turned to idol’s gold.
See, I am golden
in my mind,
no idol, but the
sun to shine
on wintry days decline.
I melt In The Atmosphere
of warmth
and almighty adoration.
Natures being
is seeing
a harsh reality.
Natural disasters
-divine-
tell of what’s to come.
An omen of outstretched hands
-togetherness to rebuild
the city nature left to crumble.
Nature is not your friend,
it’ll weather you to a foggy end,
and in her beauty, you will see
God’s wrath among the sea.
A hurricane’s fright
headed towards your home
in the night.
With all the lives
that nature took,
how can we overlook
The Somber State of
our existence?
The thought had crossed my mind,
of you,
from time to time.
Our growing affection,
our growing life.
Learning to embrace change
in a world which never stops.
Hope is like a swinging grace,
He swoops in and takes my place.
I welcome Optimism,
He’s the family
I never had
when life grew sad.
“Rejoice,” He said,
When is it enough?
Struggle and strive,
for what?
Enough is enough,
enough is enough. . .
When?
When will it be?
Every hit or miss,
mostly miss,
mostly miss.
In my Antagony
I fail to see
the point.
I’d love to have my world
painted in gorgeous,
but life is not that.
Life is not painted in gorgeous.
Life is printings of dated maps,
covering unsightly holes
in the walls of,
“I didn’t ask for this.”
The curse of humanity,
woven to repeat history.
The world is beyond my gaze
of masterful praise.
It spoke to me through
the rhythm of the waterfalls.
I look the other way-
A picture I once saw,
now hanging
on the holey walls
of my memory.
A river stone to save
I’m lost without faith
in my broken space.
Shattered glass-
nothing broke.
I’ve awoken
to spoken
woes of attempts
at peace.
And Worry will not cease
to keep me searching
for the sound of shattered glass
in my broken space.
It seems as if the sound
is from outside the grounds,
and everything around
can’t shatter Growing Faith
in my broken space.
A story left and told, it seems,
the season has a hold of me.
God’s plan strikes me, so odd,
and how could He? Why would He
let such a gentle soul
suffer as He’s done?
Remembrance of the Guilty Flowers.
The beauty of nature’s need
to grow to seed
and bloom brand new.
Fear is on the surface
of worry and wasted time.
The pointed finger of guilt and shame,
remind you,
you are not to blame.
Convenience Kills the need
to know the truth.
Hope is; wishing,
waiting,
anticipating,
crossing your fingers,
a feeling that lingers.
When let down,
She’s Commiserating.
A spark inside-
telling you,
“I’m along for the ride.”
And when you least expect
she’ll nudge her head through fear,
making faith quite clear
in the midst of the insincere.
I exchanged all the little things
for monstrosities.
Can you believe me when I say;
I traded in the hills for mountains,
carved my face,
and moved on with my life?
Yet I gave up the forest for the thickets
because they were familiar to me.
And in the thicket,
I found my crown
of esteem and dreams.
Queen Of The Cattails,
they say as I stand
proud in the swamp.
Where no one can see my face,
but the frogs who turn to Kings.
They believed in me.
I’m struggling to see
that the universe
is much bigger than me.
What puzzles me and I
-is myself.
Thoughts of the creator,
who was never created,
but rather existed existentially.
Beyond our beliefs,
lies a thing we could
never understand-
The reach of God’s hand,
could we all be here standing
below his fingertips?
Who knows?
My understanding is earthly,
humanitarian as I try to imagine
what that hand looks like.
Or is it a hand at all?
Is it just a wafting presence,
a glow around us?
God Created The Flies,
and the worm that ate
at Apathetic Happiness.
He was a second of shade,
which withered into Death Wishes.
So be still the anger
of misunderstandings,
and spare this great city
from spiritual darkness.