The Other Side Of Your Humble Narrator (Or As I Like To Call It “The Thin”)

So it’s been about a month since I’ve last blogged and there is good reason for it (not really). I’ve been super busy (LIAR!) organizing charity events (dropping pennines in those World Vision boxes does not count as “organizing charity events”, jerk!), volunteering at soup kitchens (oh please!), and celebrating life and it’s many wonders (if you call lying in bed till 3 pm with a tub of melted ice cream a celebration, then sure). But now I’ve decided to come away from it all and start this ole’ thing up again . . .

So moving on . . . 

I’ve been thinking of exposing myself a bit more than I am accustomed to, and a way that I’ve decided to do this was by posting some of my poetry on the notorious inter-webs. In hopes that others would be able to read and enjoy. So without further adieu I present to you all a piece I like to call the Thin (and don’t mind the length).

The Thin

 Growing up you hear words like “volatile” and “inconsistent”

While drawing pictures of beautiful women

You make motions to the sky screaming ‘Why can’t it be me?’

‘Why must I always be the one in silence?’

The one portrayed lifeless

As the speck in a horizontal world

Succumbed to the luxury of breathing

Face to face with the concept of mediocrity do you run?

Do you hide behind the mask of comfort?

Among the illusions of happiness and self-doubt

You paint your sorrows with cream-colored walls

Dress your wounds with grace and forgiveness

But still you dare cry ‘More’?

You dare say, ’I have not enough’?

You call the name of God in hopes of enlightenment of retribution

As if your life was an empty room

Needing to be filled with a deeper understanding a deeper love

From things you can’t put a name or a face

Shadows phantoms have become your dwelling place

And the only comfort is a memory traded for a dream

Dreams to one day call ‘Love?’ and get a response

But holding on only lasts for so long

Fingers numb, as do hearts

Feeling becomes but a word

The hands of time do not heal but take

They shape creativity to normality and call it “beautiful”


But as you hold the rotting hands of reality

You will see no beauty only decay

You will hear no songs of love

For love is a concept only God can comprehend

And no man dare say ‘Love’ from a position of sincerity

For no man can pay that cost

The cost to love is great but to receive it is nothing

Yes reality is volatile and inconsistent

Wisdom can be uttered from the mouth of a fool

But reality is not all that is real

And yes beauty can be captured in a brush stroke

Masterpieces can be created from immoral hearts

But beauty is not all that is beautiful

There is more to life than words and pretty faces

There is more to death than ‘What is left behind?’ or ‘What comes next?’

For a man is not measured by riches

A man is not witnessed by what he accomplished

Rather he is measured by the standards of pure love

He is witnessed by the splendor of immeasurable grace

In a world where being seen is everything

In a time when being beautiful means nothing

What else is there to hold onto?

Where else do you find peace?

There is nothing and there is no where

Only the thin

Comment on what you think of it, steal it from me if you want and pass it on as your own, do what ever you want I don’t care . . . just kidding. Hands off the merchandise playa! 


One thought on “The Other Side Of Your Humble Narrator (Or As I Like To Call It “The Thin”)

  1. I was wondering when you would do another blog, good on ya! 🙂 I really like the poem too… “Witnessed by the splendor of immeasurable grace” love it. Please keep posting!

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