At night, before the day comes

I must convince myself that I am not afraid.
I must lean into it.
Face the day –
However dreadful.

The way I see it, I have three options:
Die.
Stay.
Or lean.

I’ve thought much about the dying way.
Meditated.
Romanticized.
But I cannot. I don’t have it in me.

I have done more than think,
About the staying way –
I have lived it for many years.
Found the rhythms in being still.

I’m left with lean,
And the want to move.
I must face the day,
Even though, it will often be dreadful.

The Dead

It has come again –
The dead
It’s creeping in

I don’t mind it
It’s really not that bad
So, I let it in

It comes whether you want it to,
Or not
You can’t will it away

The dead doesn’t work like that
It is concentrated power
It’s consecrated too

The dead is a valley
In between two mountains
You must journey through

What is the difference,
Between the dead and winter?
Nothing.

Winter
Is a coat
The dead wears.

Eyes

My eyes are polyamorous, lingering and twisting,
playing tricks on my Sunday School heart.

They feed my brain the food it wants but doesn’t need.
Empty calories for empty Saturdays.

Alone, with dark hooded thoughts; talons that rip me open until
I’m that moment before catatonic and the one right after vulnerable.

I’ve seen these moving pixels dance one hundred times before,
But today I hope they’ll glimmer and glint just for me.

I’ll draw the lights in until that fateful day
When I carve my eyes clean out of my head.

The Politician’s Poem

I heard a crooked politician use poetry to further his platform and policy. And it came to me, even true beauty, elegant and profound, can be twisted to run the truth down. Once honest and flawless now beaten to the ground. There was a flash of hate in his eyes the moment before that wondrous poem died. Naked and quivering with a hole in her side.

Naked and quivering with her slight wrists tied.

Kill

I don’t like to kill
Even the small things
Even the littlest ones
I feel it too hard

I stand over them in their death
And whisper about their short life
As if mine is long
I don’t like to kill

I mustn’t
Do you understand me?
It hurts me too bad
To watch them writhe

To watch them twist
To watch their life leave
And abandon their eyes
It hurts me too bad

I hit a small wasp today
With a pocket size notebook
I scooped him up and slid
Him out the window

I hoped with everything
That he would fly
But I heard him hit the ground
I don’t like to kill

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I wanna take my place among them.
Those crooning creators.
Those well mannered makers.
Those artists.
You know the ones.
The ones you turn up real loud so you can hear every word.
The ones you don’t want to miss.
The ones you hold close to your heart.
I wanna take my place among them so one day, they call me more than “friend.”
So that one day, they won’t just call me “buddy,” but brother. Oh brother I wanna take my place among them.
Take my place with them not above them. Rather just by their side. I wanna be a thorn cast sideways. Oh brother I wanna take my place. I want to give up my running. I wanna finish this race. Yeah yeah, just tell me, how would it taste?

His Sadness

Maybe we’re all pieces of God’s personality.
Some of us represent his happiness.
Some represent his frustrations.
Others still, are his wonder, his fear, his joy.

I am his sadness, I think.

I am his woe and depression. I am his lament and sorrow. I am him when he looks at brokenness in the mirror and doesn’t accept it, when he looks at it out the window too. I am him when when he’s kicking and screaming and foaming at the mouth in the face of all this sin and separation. I am him when he’s tied to a bed in a mental hospital, thrashing and wishing for something, anything else.

I am his sadness.

I’m sure of it.