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Sunday, 25 October 2009

Content.

The layers that cover my heart are being peeled away with ease by hands of fire.
I am drinking in the voice of a Father, Savior, Romancer, Friend.
I have never been so empty yet so full.
These waters are overflowing, Lord.

Thursday, 15 October 2009

Heartsick.

Everyone has there opinion but no one cares to listen.
I just need you to hear me.
It means more than just attention and carries more weight than any act.

I'm scared. I'm lonely. I don't want to care anymore but I do everyday. This not knowing hurts so much I want to scream. I can't breathe. I keep chasing after a goal, a plan, a wish, a hand to hold.

I'm not okay today.

Searching for your face each morning through the haze of my own mind is agony at times, for in doing so I have to face this flaw-filled figure that is my self.

I'mtryingI'mtryingI'mtrying- but this all just seems in vain. I am the cup of putrid water that you will drink from believing it fresh, the one that poisons you slowly. Sin covers me and I feel it now, see it in the blood that runs through my veins. It is nothing like the blood you shed, the love you give. Too much.

I am the failures of failures and the truest of disappointments. Break me down, please.

Monday, 12 October 2009

Currently
The Fiancee
By The Chariot
see related
Hi.

I'm impatient but learning.
I hate boxes that people attempt to put God in.
I want to change the world and no course at a simple university will really aid in that.
My heart is longing for places I have not even seen.

I suck at college and can't wait to be done with this.

The end.

Sunday, 04 October 2009

Currently
I and Love and You
By The Avett Brothers
see related
To whoever this is meant for ( though wholeheartedly do I believe I know).

I am sick with wanting.
Inconceivable and so very unexpected.
It has been too long since my eyes knew yours, since my ears partook of one voice. Centuries.
My hands want to be held and my spirit it desires to be cared for in the very best and worst of ways.
A primal, timeless desire, I have just discovered its power.
It's as if it wasn't awakened in me until just this moment, for a reason I've yet seen.
The thought of you and your existing is simply not enough anymore.
I am longing, to the point of illness- sweet, chaotic, encompassing insanity.
My body aches with waiting, realizing the half that will birth its own completion is here in our city, near to this breath and skin.
Patience growing, pure and potential love burning,
I will wait for you, boy.

" I charge you, O Daughters of Jerusalem, by the gazelles or by the does of the field, Do no stir up nor awaken love until it pleases." - Song of Solomon 2:7

Saturday, 19 September 2009

I need to create to breathe.
To make with these hands something worthwhile, lasting.
To combat the thought that I am irrelevant, nothing to give, nothing to prove.
It's an idea easy to convince when not a thing is expected.
Walking, talking, bleeding cliche.
You believe in me like you believe in God, in tiny time increments when anger ebbs and chest softens.
Love me to fill spaces left by those who could not and would not stay.
There isn't much left here to prosper.
Only the disease that is mediocrity, fed in spoonfuls to my gaping hole of a mouth.
I choke it down like honey, take it in with fever.
It tastes of comfort, oh dearest apathy ( you were once a beloved friend to me).
But there is this frantic frenzy that makes my bones shake and causes fingers to quicken.
A desperate desire to shape beauty with these hands, to form syllables with this tongue.
To let the words flow from my guts and spill out onto pages, give me a line to sing.
I want to live life in lenses, give me a moment to bring,
to the surface in photos that bare all my soul, and capture real light in eyes and minds and smiles.
This a longing that makes me more than a body and a brain,
my joy ( present, past, future, love).
NO room is there here in my existing for wasted minutes and taken for granted days,
I will not be grey.
This is why I create.
Because I know that when I am but ashes on blades of grass pastures,
when the masses have broken down every good moral and big city,
all that will remain will be the expressions left by those who saw the depths of real and gave it new promise.
Art.