Spiritual Canvas

I only know the normal of being a 16 year old and giving yourself to another 16 year old. The feelings that followed were not generally identifiable as a new specific presence, but, nonetheless, this interchange radically altered my genetic makeup causing me to become a different person. Trust me, I haven't kept secret how I was changed as if it was something I already knew. How can you know you are different when all you know is who you are? I had a sparkle in my eye. The color of life returned. I now had a place where my sincerest unashamed naked self could be found and acknowledged. That gift, at 16, was the spark to the dry tinder of my soul. I wasn’t looking for some outlet or horny desire, or so I think. I was looking for a mate, in which the raspy sparse cords of my soul could intertwine and find renewed strength in another. Despite all of the built around me pressure to never do what I was doing. I found my hope in doing the exact thing I was told to never do. AND I didn’t ...

I never thought letting go would feel like this. Embarrassed that everyone would see me fail. I promised I would be strong. I couldn’t hold on any more. It hurt too much to say again all the things I said before. Would it be worth it if this time when I faked it I tried even harder to believe? Maybe I’ll see how simple it is and betray my soul, so I can rest inside something hollow and forget lying was not supposed to be an option.  Speaking the words from hidden crevices, despite vastness aimed to glean away meaning. Unlike a broken clock, my words syncopate to there precarious tone. With a force unaware, siphoning the death from the poison. Purpose flows chaotically from a devoid mist. Purpose, to open anew, the ossuary of my resolve.  Gleam with life too brittle to share. Like an old paupers box, keeping all too well, the tattered treasures inside, I am the one to tell. My soul alone testing the limits of my broken respite. Melted long away, to form anew. My intent...

There is only so much I can do for a broken heart, before the next option I have is to let it be broken. You can't fix what wills to continue broken. an unrepented mind will forever choose its own way, broken heart with fixation of grief let alone its hearts beat, to sound like a clock, ticking away, thudding in the empy hollows of the empty chest where once life could flow unimpeded stem the flow now again, timing isn't right, shallow as it is, i'll let the dull sullen ache resume its methodical bouncing tune empty thumping of the broken clock the clock inside my chest broken like your heart you can't fix what isnt yours you can't fix what doesnt know its broken you can't fix me, says all of who I am. no words are needed to let me know that its easier to live everything out, then to face the one thing i never want to see again my reflection in someones face the face of the one, the one through whom all i have ever known, was, the rew...

A lot of times the simple magical things of the Christian story get expedited so they can be used for a certain purpose. The magical perplexing nature of the person that has been promised since the dawn of time, the thought that the act of betrayal for that long awaited drum roll of humanity, would be done with a kiss.... How can that be a punctuated sentence on the way to explaining “the gospel.” No need to stop here kids. Just keep 'em  moving along like cattle so they can get to the part where they are saved by hearing about Jesus. I guess we don't mind losing the value of life, in the service of our blind unrelenting perspective. I think when my sunday school teacher taught me about Old Testament Saul there was laced in the telling a measure of resentment for the character of Saul. Maybe she saw his pride and arrogance, and maybe it reminded her at some level of her blindness she had to her own pride. Match that with the fragrant beautiful mystifying David...