Queen

Lauryn Hill.

Breathe

Should I keep writing?
I mean, I’ve never really made any money at it.
No one’s ever told me that something I wrote changed their life.
Or even changed their day.
Or changed anything at all.
Should I keep singing?
I mean I’ve never made any money at it.
No one’s ever told me that a song of mine made them pause and think.
Or inspired them to move.
Or inspired them at all.
Should I keep breathing?
I mean I’ve never been someone who makes things happen.
No one’s ever told me that I am confident.
Or seem driven.
Or drive women wild.
Should I keep going?
I mean, this list is starting to sound monotonous.
No one wants to hear you complain.
Or write or sing.

Or breathe.

Pigeon

Write a poem.
Sit down, get a notebook out and write a poem.
Then erase every fucking letter because it’s shit and so are you.
The last line was too deprecating, but the audience connects anyway.
Laugh. Throw your head back and laugh. Right at the beginning.
They have to believe you are crazy. You have to convince them of nothing.
There’s a hole in my shoes. There’s a hole in my soul. Which one can a department store fix?
Too few psychiatrist with too many patients with too little patients. I’ve written that line before.
I make a fine poet. Psych. Kidding. I just want to see if you’re still listening.
Make a list then sing all your problems. Out the window. What do birds know? About it.
Probably nothing. But then again, I’m no pigeon.
Cry for no reason in the middle. Break down and shake. Make them believe you are broken. You have to convince them of nothing.
I make a fine depressive. The only kind of person who can ever claim to be a poet.
Pause at the end.
Leave a big. blank. space.
Take a deep breath to make them believe that you are thoughtful.
Convince them you’re something.

JK Rowling Quote

“Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.” 

New Hero

I’ve been loving Gift of Gab’s flow for many years now. So much respect for him now that I know his grind. This video makes me want to make music.

“I am a fire escape. My spine is made of iron
and my heart pumps out old, red paint.” 

Bride Series Poem

So here we find ourselves.
In the middle of two great weddings.
First with Adam and Eve.
Finally with Christ and his Bride.
The story of scripture is laced
with a lover pursuing his beloved.
And we were once lovely.

We were devoted to the apostles teaching
To fellowship and eating together.
We prayed for our growing family
and we prayed for our forever.

We shared everything.
Our clothing our property our possessions.
The Lord added to our number
And we forgave great transgressions.
Simply put, we were lovely.

But now that beauty has been broken.
Our hearts imprisoned
Our minds stolen.

Battered, bloodied, bruised
We stand before a most holy God
Shaken and confused
How could we fall so far?

But he steps in for us redeems,
Red river brackish flows and teams
On a cross his body broke
In blood rivers our mouths to choke.

To sanctify Her
Oh what a cost.
That Jesus paid
On wooden cross.

Now he can present his bride holy and blameless
Spotless while we make him famous.
To what length would you go?
The reply echoes of I love you so.
And again echoes of welcome home.

How then should we move toward him?
Where in this do we begin?
Fight for not with
The poor and penniless

How he pursued then we shall too.
How he pursued then we shall too.
How he pursued then we shall too.

It cost Jesus everything
and we should expect no less.
It cost him everything.
Even His very flesh.

So here we find ourselves.
In the middle of two great weddings.
First with Adam and Eve,
Finally with Christ and his Bride.
Let’s bring the wine.

Call it Heaven

We’ll call it heaven but it hurts like hell.
I keep trying to fill my bucket at the bottom of this well,
and I keep coming up empty handed.

Granted, I never put my whole heart in.
I never begin to let go, lose myself or fall too deeply,
too madly, too completely.

Truthfully, I don’t think I’ve even come close.
I’m like that meniscus in a glass of water
dipping so slightly away from parallel.

Grasping for the surface. Clutching at bendy straws
that the waitress at Denny’s always gives too few of.
I’m like a dove with broken wings.

That walks across the street, not humbly inspired
rather intended for flight but relegated to the ground.
When a heart breaks does it make a sound?

I couldn’t tell you. I keep reaching out for something
and no one ever reaches back. They say they got my back
but they really mean “I’m gunna need you to stop talking”

“I need you to go away now.” To never speak again.
But you said you were my friend. Now all that’s left is this bottle
and the pen. Hospital walls closing in and my freedom smells like sin.

We’ll call it Heaven,
Hell, we’ll call it even.

A skyline to inspire you.

Grind

I am a great writer.
It hit me today after reading poems I wrote a year ago.
I am a great writer.
And it was more than that.
This feeling I felt.
It was prolific.
It was sound.
I have already done what I came here to do.
Everything from this point on is extra.
I am immovable.
I am unstoppable.
I will not.
I cannot.
Stop becoming the greatest writer who ever lived.
Who ever put pen to paper.
Who ever had an idea and captured it and wrangled it and pulled it apart,
Until it was mine.
And then it was yours.
I am a great writer.
Let that ring for a moment.
I am a great writer.
Let that sing.
I am a great writer.
You don’t get to tell me I’m not.
I don’t allow it.
I don’t give you that power.
I am a great writer.
It doesn’t matter if I sell 1 copy.
It doesn’t matter if I sell 1 million copies.
It doesn’t matter if I become poor from the pursuit.
It doesn’t matter if I become rich, synonymous with the craft.
It doesn’t matter because I know.
In the very core of my person.
In the center of my chest.
In the middle of my brain.
That I am a great writer.
Who are you?