Posts Tagged With: poetry


All the lies I let myself believe, will they someday haunt me, be whispered in my sleep? Tell me true, for there is there is value in honesty. I realize that I shoot myself in the foot with the same regularity as I eat, and I’m not foolish enough to believe that that’s mostly for the cause of enabling others, though it is occasionally.

I’m more selfish than I want to be; sometimes it’s hard to believe there is yet goodness in me. Once I had convinced myself I was artsy, but now I know that I’m just angsty… the drama queen I always strove not to be. Are we ever who we want, in reality?

Fame is fleeting, as is beauty. I’ve been lucky enough not to be granted either in excess. Nor do I have great knowledge, though I once thought I liked philosophy  Philosophists’ agonizing over-analyzing killed that theory. Yet, even in these words I seek to be more known. In everything I am the antithesis of all I hoped to be. I show, in all things, too much of my humanity, which I’m told is tacky…but I always admired vulnerability.

There are moments I wish I could freeze, but really nothing is all that we remember it to be. In conclusion, I’ll refrain from over-speculation on where I see myself, let alone our nation in any span of time: a month, a year… Though, through ash colored glasses, I see myself not much closer to my destination, yet closer to death. Make what you will of that prediction. Kind salutations to you on your trek, whose path crossed with mine on this occasion. Fare thee well.

Categories: Poems | Tags: , , , , , | 1 Comment

Poems: Experiential & Elaboration

Camp was good. Life has been busy since then so I’m behind. Maybe eventually there’ll be a post here about camp, but maybe not. I make no promises. Anyhow, for now, here are two poems that I had written before camp, but hadn’t had a chance to put up. The first is based on experience, the second is an elaboration on this Pinterest quote about an oxymoron we moronic humans often live.

I miss you every day,
Both in ways I know and can’t explain.
Remember when you said
I’d forget,
No one cared,
That the world would be better off without you here?
You were wrong.
You took your life (relatively) long
And I know
That my grieving will never end.
The world’s a darker place without you, and
I know reliving choices…regret,
I know regret won’t help me get
Bet whether
You’re in Haven or Hell,
That’s at least partly my responsibility
I can’t help feeling your choice was affected by disability.
It’d be fine
If we could switch eternal destinations,

Your past versus mine…
But, much to my frustration,
Things don’t work that way.
Everyone pays for his deeds.
God, please,
Did you help him see at the last instant?
I can’t
Handle life with a smile as I used to.
People ask if I’m ok. Do
I need someone to talk to?
But talking doesn’t help me get over you.
I hate depression like some people hate cancer.
As with that there is no answer,
No cure.
I watch depression’s vicious cycle take more
Into its grip.
I watch as they slip
Beyond where I can reach,
And I die a little more each
Not all truths rhyme:

I’m beginning to think there’s nothing I could change even if I could rewind.

So I’ll drink another draught from the cup of sorrow,
Sleep, awake, and face tomorrow.


And she wished upon a dream
That her secrets would be seen
For what they were by some wild, keen

And that he would excavate her soul
Unearthing pieces, sketching a whole
Portrait of her true person
He heart in the nude, un-shrouded from role

And in her fervent prayers and fears
She hoped his heart would ever steer
Closer to the truth of her feral, rearing self.

That someone be less afraid of
Her ugliness than she.
That man-child, made of tender persistence
Could see in her beauty…
Mine her depths,
Find something to cherish
In the wreck,
Fight and not perish
Against inner battlements she’d set up.
That he might, somehow, fall in love.

I tend to like the first one better. I’d love to know your thoughts and/or critiques!



Categories: Poems | Tags: , , , | 3 Comments


Once in a while I’m good for a poem, and it’s been a while since I last posted one, so here for good measure is my once in a while poem.


Words fill all the pages.
I finally closed the book…
End to a season brimming
With tragedy and hope.
Each page bears a story;
I can go back and look
The places that I’ve come from,
My past, and all that took
The pieces of my heart
And then ran away or died,
The people that I’ve loved,
The occasions that I’ve cried.
To me it’s sacred ground,
or rather, pages there inside.
Chapters of my journey…
Tell me, what is yet to come?
What will the final page say
When my life is gone and done?
One journal is complete now.
Another will soon begin.
I wonder, oh I wonder,
what stories will it hold within?

Categories: Poems | Tags: , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Mini Rebellions

I shut down my calculator and begin a post of poetry. How ironic. It’s been long enough since I’ve written one of these. Honestly I’m not writing poetry as much lately as I’m stuck in the world of school and exact answers, but words are still ever so much more important than numbers to me. Maybe I’m rebelling against the exactness with all this free verse. I never used to be able to pull that type off, but these are half decent if I do say so myself. We shall see what ya’ll have to say (and it better be honest.) So, with no further ado I present to you my mini rebellions against rigidity and routine. Enjoy.

Maybe fun is just denial.
Maybe happiness only delays the inevitable.
Maybe playing is worthless because it is ‘ignoring the heart of the matter.’
Maybe laughter is an insubstantial relief for the weak.
Maybe I am the weak because I won’t let go.
Of little moments, small connections, and inconsequential banter,
Of people who—even though they won’t display hurt—pillow fight to the death,
Of days I look forward to filled with sarcasm and temporal pleasure,
Of childlike abandon,
Of the things that keep me alive.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
Maybe growing up is overrated.
Maybe not.
 Interwoven into…
Infusing lives with meaning,
Expressing feelings for us.
Ascribed to memories–
We pick our favorite groups.
Words plus rhythm equals power.
Each generation claims a type.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
Voice of rebellion,
The stuff of movements,
Stuff of dreams.
Impossible to forget. 
Imperative to the human experience.
Universal: embedded in our genes.
Categories: Poems, Ponderings | Tags: , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Not All Better

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAIt would be nice to say that everything is all better now, but it wouldn’t be honest. There are good moments and there are bad hours. Such is life. These last days have been busy without much time for thinking, and I’m still not sure if that is good or bad. There has been much laughter with people, and many unshed tears of frustration without them; the laughter was real, and so was the frustration. I’ll never figure me out, though I do know small things. I know I like to play hard, and I know that I am horribly selfish. I know that I like people, and words, but especially sarcastic words and people. I usually dislike numbers. I know that I enjoy good food almost too much, and that I’ll never stop wishing to fly. I know that I am loved by God. Well that was off topic, wasn’t it?

What I really came to share was a poem I wrote recently because I thought I lacked the words to write a blog post. I’m beginning to doubt that I lack the words, but I still hold that I have nothing new to say. So I present you this poem in all it’s imperfection, not because you need to know more about where I am or say nice words about it, but because maybe it will touch you, and maybe the brokenness of art will stir your soul. That’s what I would like to hope anyways. Before that poem I’ll share some words that belong to Rich Mullins, a fool for Christ, which helped me make it  through this past week.

    “We don’t ever understand what we’re praying.”

Simple faith and wonder
Back when all wasn’t based on me.
They say we only progress through times of despair;
I say I want to see.
I want God to quench my longing,
to fill my cup over.
The desert sands are calling
For a sip of living water.
He said drink and you’ll never thirst again,
But I am as the deer-
Panting, longing, yearning when
The water must be near.
Just Beyond my grasp it seems,
Spirit and tongues of fire.
Will I ever glean
Why He ways wait to my desire?
Jesus, Savior fill my cup.
I need to feel your nearness.
If You don’t come I might give up,
For nothing can match your dearness.
Categories: My Life, Poems, Ponderings | Tags: , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Prose Poetry

It’s been long enough that I’d like to put up some more writing stuff. I actually wrote this earlier this month, but I think it reflects where I am right now well. I don’t have a title yet, so I’m OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAopen to suggestions. Let me know what you think.

I wear feathers because I want to fly. I want to explore the depths, and heights of things. I want to go in soul, and in spirit to places most people are afraid of because they are uncomfortable. Comfort should not be allowed to stop adventure, virtue maybe, or  the Holy spirit, but not comfort. Comfort doesn’t like battling evil, or throwing caution to the wind for curiosity’s sake. There are lines. There are lines that I will not cross, but there are deserts, and rainforests far beyond civilization whose only lines involve danger, and comfort which I will stubbornly force myself to cross in the pursuit of…something.

God never meant for us to be content. We are far too easily satisfied; we trade the ocean for our slums, and mud pies. We trade vastness for narrow-minded life. We kill ourselves off slowly by denying ourselves the wonder of wandering at will. Productivity will never trump playfulness. Sometimes I lose the wonder for a moment or a day.  Sometimes I don’t even notice that it’s gone. It creeps out slowly upon overexposure to them: the safe and simple-minded ones.

When I notice the emptiness I leave them in order  to seek wonder, and I find it somewhere between the ocean and the mountaintop. I forgo sophisticatedness for a time. Though sometimes I am forced back into high society, and when I am I wear feathers: my reminder to fly. 

Categories: My Life, Poems, Ponderings | Tags: , , , , , | 13 Comments

Old Souls

“Gonna let the tide, and the time, and the tears wash my body clean.”

~La Conchinta

Old soul crying by the ocean. If I could make myself look how I feel…what then? I’d be old, yet reborn; I would be mysterious.  Right now trust is meeting the struggle, and I’m finally OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAcontent again. For the moment. I love the old souls; the fighting ones. It’s hard for me to let go of the few that I’ve found.

The strong of will, body, and heart attract me. Let me be strong too, but be stronger. Be weathered, and splintered beach wood, and I will embrace the art. The old and time-worn ones have been cut to the core. Only their truth remains. They’ll climb a mountain, laugh at the sea, and fight for what they believe in. Right or not they are strong, though not always honest-hiding under tough exteriors.

I sing of, long for, and love their kind. There’s the challenge to see if they’ll let me in; There’s camaraderie as we wonder together at the merciless souls, and the beautiful wilderness. We look at our generation, and don’t know weather to laugh or cry at their youth and stupidity. We may be youths, but what we’ve found goes deeper. 

Old soul crying by the ocean. I am like you. Let me be your friend.

(Something I wrote the other day.)

Categories: My Life, Ponderings | Tags: , , , , , | 7 Comments

It’s Time

It’s been a while since I last posted poetry. It’s time. The first two, I assure you are not about me, although I’m sure they show sides of me. The last one is a kind of Psalm that randomly popped into my head one day. Enjoy, as always! Let me know what you think

The Writer
Their problems were bigger than her;
All she did was write words.
She didn’t really solve mysteries.
Answers, they demanded, but she had only ink.
Crumpled papers marked her journey,
Difficulty: her sole plot.
She was no heroine, she never overcame;
stepping back was easier.
So she retreated into herself
Never to be seen again. 
Brutal honesty.
Words splatter everywhere, hiding what lies beneath.
Blessed silence.
Her brain never stops for fear of collapse.
Vulnerable love.
She hides her real self-the unlovable.
Burning hope.
Desperate pleas echo unanswered.
Undoubting faith.
She flees faith’s responsibility.
Who she is, and who she wants to be.
Take my worry, take my fears;
Take my heartache, take my tears.
Take them on thy shoulders God-
Take them as I onward plod.
That I may freely rest in You,
in all I say; in all I do.
Categories: My Life, Poems, Ponderings | Tags: , , , , , | 3 Comments

Late summer nights

I don’t have much to say that would add to this. It speaks to a lot of things that have been going on in my journey lately.

Late summer nights pondering the questions of life are worthwhile. The answers don’t always come, but the strength is there: the strength in my head.Strength fails-migraines interrupt mental capacity. The soul longs for an oasis.

Late summer nights spent with the embodiment of strength are more than worthwhile. Deep conversations: pleading, being known, adoring. Strength is made perfect in weakness, and late summer nights.

Categories: My Life, Poems, Ponderings | Tags: , , , , , | 1 Comment

To See Beyond

I haven’t done a random writing post in a while, so here you go. There’s a poemish thing (that’ll go first), and then a little anecdote type deal. I gave this the title I did because both of these, despite their differences, are me seeing beyond the surface; for good or bad I don’t know. The second one I was  also working on description. Feel free to comment and critique.



The minnow-like emittance squirms it’s way into into a virgin sky. Upon reaching it’s zenith explodes: birth, life, and death occur within moments ‘it’ is forgotten, replaced quickly by another, only again to be overshadowed by the next, and the next.

Some greater, some smaller,  few unique, lasting beyond seconds. Life is simple, life is short, life is glorious. Beginning with only a spark soon to fizzle into oblivion each after the other continuing until the grand finale in the dark night sky.
Untold Story
She sat in an ancient tan truck, feet out the window, Pepsi can moving to the beat. The song blared the words “And that’s what makes you beautiful.” repeatedly over the parking lot. Perhaps she was the only one enjoying it. She- with the dirty blond shoulder length hair; with the piercings. Two or three lip rings, metal in her nose, innumerable earrings. She couldn’t have been that old… fourteen? her black pink-laced shoes in front of the truck’s mirror were not large, the arms beneath her elbow high bracelets were in no way thick. Did she cut? What was her story? She had a story, but I will never know. Driving off, leaving the question mark, the beautiful broken girl
Categories: Poems, Ponderings | Tags: , , , , | 7 Comments

Blog at