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).
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!