Tasting the Bitter Fruits

For your ignorance, I would like to let you taste the brick I would like to throw at your face.  Sometimes vivid and violent images pass through my mind.

I hear the intervals of these notes and I can almost taste the iron of blood it stirs in my stomach.

I hear the words, and I can smell the steel wool being worn down, the metallic taste ripping through my mouth and coating behind my front teeth and under my tongue.  I can hear you, but I can smell and taste the crispness of your words.  Open up my eyes for a time, and I might see something, too.

To close your eyes to this waking consciousness, to close your eyes to this overstimulus of feeling and emotion and emotional void.  To close your eyes of this intense feeling of misery felt at the commercialism of a bar of soap.
Nothing seems to be able to wash me clean.  Nothing seems to cleanse me from this draught.  Nothing can make me shiny as a new toy again.  There is not magic that can do this.
Your newness lasts in a fading memory and in a dream that stirs my waking mind when I hear the words.  When I smell the burn, I think of you in anger that you are associated with anything in my mind at all.
Where are the erasers to burn out and squelch this vain heart looking to conquer?

I am burned with a desire.
Conquering, and overwhelming,
I will overwhelm you, and I will overcome, and your disbelief will be the look on your face.  You will look and always be in disapproval of me, no matter the obstacles I have overcome to even know you.  I will never be good enough, because I never was, nor ever will be yours.
Blood is blood.
You shaped nothing of the figment of imagination that I am.
I am a creature of myth, and I do not belong in this realm to be your blood borne scorned mistake that you will not admit to claiming.  You will not admit to the moment of passion you felt in a secret place, in an unspecial town, in an unspecial way.  Curiosity made you the killer, murdering a relationship we could have had.  You bore me for no reason, nor direction.
I was shaped in strong hands, stronger than yours could have ever been.

We both know you could never have wielded this child.  We both know you could never have held me close.
We both know you never really will.
Why do we keep lying about this.
I will always be your rejected one, and a patching of some broken relationship.
There is healing.
There is scarring.

I'm between a waking and sleeping world.

I'm between your words and your unspoken thoughts.
I'm between your teeth, the tongue to yield your good and bad.
Both come.
Bitter, and sweet.

confound.ed.

"Set up markers for yourself;
make yourself guideposts;
consider well the highway,
the road by which you went.
Return, O virgin Israel,
return to these your cities.
How long will you waver,
O faithless daughter?
For the LORD has created a new thing on the earth:
a woman encircles a man."

Jeremiah 31:21-22



have faith.  this is something we cannot muster up on our own.  i've tried to muster up faith within myself, and rely on myself in such a way as if i could bring myself peace.  in this subconscious futile attempt my heart was overgrown with weeds and things no one ever would plant.  these things that grew were choking out the fruit and choking out the light, and stealing the nourishment the roots needed to flourish.

a season of pruning that this plant might bear even more fruit in the days to come.  may these fields of fruit bear much in the days ahead, and may the weeds be torn out and burned on a brush fire.  may a new day come out of the ground with the promise and hope it has always had and may my heart rejoice because His great love for us never changes.  nothing i can do or say can or will change his mind towards his love for me and for anyone else for that matter.
this unconditional nature confounds me, and i've been in a season of not believing it.

of course.
i am wrong in this thinking that my performance, my acceptance, my completeness comes from anything but him.  even expectations i think he has for me, those are really my expectations i set on myself and when i fail at meeting 'my' expectations, there are these driving thoughts of not being good enough for God, and in turn, not being good enough for anyone i know.
i get angry at the lack of acceptance, even though its something i don't need to worry about.  i don't need to live in insecurity anymore because he loves, and because i'm reconnected with God because of Christ.  the broken relationship that happened at the fall of man has ended in me because Christ now lives within me bridging the gap and forgiving me once for past present and future.

weird.

Left Field

Maybe its true. Being in and out. This middle ground of non committal space of indecisiveness, never choosing, but being in the middle. To be safe in the not complete commitment so that if you're caught in a conundrum, you can be 'politically correct' because you never really committed to whatever it was you were supposedly committed to in the first place.

Scared of being stuck and trapped has defined this trait in me. Some friends would describe it as my 'coyness'. Coy.  http://www.thefreedictionary.com/coy
This seems to be my state too frequently as I don't want to completely commit. I don't want to ever 'completely' be wrong. I don't ever want to be completely be the one to blame.
When I'm caught I will admit to these things. When I'm not caught in definite answers or definite statements, I'm off somewhere in a playful game of coyness.
No coyness intended. I realize how much I avoid...everything.

I stunt my own experiences because some definite concrete thing scares me to a degree, (depending on matters of importance.) I can be blunt, and this isn't always to my advantage, but I think it can fool people to think I'm not as coy or evasive as I really am.
I guess I'm not as evasive when it comes to other people.
I even use phrases like 'I guess' instead of the complete state of being and admittance, 'I am'.
I am, I am not.

I don't always say what I mean.
Sometimes I avoid direct answers.
I should be accused as 'SUBJECT CHANGER'.
Random? No. Just subject changer.

Ok. I'm random.
But I do throw conversations out in left field sometimes.

Where has my perspective gone? I've been challenged on this and ache with it. I ache because in my lack of choosing definitive answers and whatever else, I have been the cause to the very things I wished to avoid. So much for my brilliance.

Joy of Movement

There are things I regret in a world where I have few regrets.

Its complicated doesn't describe my life.  Maybe things are so simple they are overlooked.
I complicate simple.  That very well could make me a prick.
Let me break your spirit.
I am breakable, too, and I break for smaller things.  Maybe I'm much more shattered than I thought at the beginning of this walk.  Maybe my rusty heart is exposed, the oxidation breaking me down to less than when it began.

I am an oxidized hole.
I am not a complete thought but a continuously churning and morphing cloud of conscious and unconscious.  I move in this space and in between this space and walk a waking dream and nightmare, choosing and cheating sleep and my waking world.

Time is a jerk, yet is our gift.  The dwindling of moments is our happiness because it makes the previous moment all the more precious.  We are so exhausted and one day, we will lay our head down for the last time.  We will wake for the last time.  We will speak for the last time.
One day.
It all ends.

Mustache Mornings.

There is just nothing quite like a Mustache Morning.
Let me explain.

Mornings that require a certain inconspicuousness to them.  The morning that required me to not readily notice.  Notice what?  You tell me.
A Mustache Morning requires a certain finesse.  I needed to be inconspicuous so I threw on my Mustache. You could also say, "Today was a Mustache Morning.  I threw on my Mustache as I walked out the door and went to work."

Wonderful.
It was just a Mustache Morning, you see.
I threw on my mustache and danced vigorously because I just needed to move in a freeing way.

I keep thinking more on movement.  I keep thinking more on dancing.  I think dancing is more important than we realize.  Like art is more important than we realize.  I started dancing the other day and really let go of my limitations on my movements and forgot to be embarrassed in front of myself.  I started in a medium melancholy state of mind and left in a state of happiness.  I felt good to be alive.  I truly believe we need to express ourselves more and interact with the world around us.
The numbness of our state in constant stimulus of mere entertainment value does not always ENGAGE us in the watching of the movie.  We sit back within ourselves and our thoughts remain inside, and our feelings remain inside, and our real life experiences that allow us to connect in the watching of a movie remain buried as the engaging factor wasn't really present.

We forget to engage in our own lives, and I feel as if I engaged with myself again.
I feel a strange awareness that I am alive, and it is a good feeling.  It makes me want to move and express myself to God.  To express myself in ways that words really cannot.

So I throw on my mustache that allows me to be inconspicuous in front of myself and I let go and move as pulsating or river like music takes me in a fluid motion, washing me in this river of freshness and in this river of life.

Grow up.

I want to think of you fondly but I don't today.  All I feel are your mistakes.  They weigh on more than just you.  Your actions are a domino of movements touching the domino people around you.  Not to eat domino pizza.  Just dominate the conversation.

I'm sick of it.

I'm sick when you call.  I'm sick when you don't.
I'm afraid of commitment because you're afraid of commitment.
You don't commit.
You did not commit to me.
I was not worth much then, and I am not worth now.

I would think you could keep your pants on.
I would think you could control yourself better than you do.
You're just a mess like this canvas of paint turning into mud beneath an inexpert hand.

Baby Talk.

I haven't talked to you in days, and in complete honesty, I haven't noticed until yesterday.

The smell of you found my nostrils somehow today and I remembered your face, your hair, your speech.  I remembered your tired look.  That tired look seems to be constant.
You don't call me because it is my responsibility to call you.
This relationship is uncharted in reality.  How do you work this through.  I can't always do it.
You fall back burner to my life, and I am ok with this.
I am ok to not hear your voice droning on about things that only involve you.  I am very selfish.  But I got it from you and your human condition, too.  You're supposed to be better at life with your coming of age and experience.  You're supposed to know things that are gems and nuggets of gold.  This isn't high school.  You're not in high school anymore.  Why do I have to be the adult.  Why do you have to act like a child on a constant stage of forgetfulness.
I'd think that you smoked more pot than anyone I know, but you just think on little other than yourself.

You are your own rainbow.


Where is the art in that.



I look in the mirror and wrestle with my bone structure.  I struggle with my eyes.  I struggle with any resemblance to you because I don't know if I like it or not.  I don't know if I accept well where I came in a physical way.  I want to love what God made, but I don't approve of your actions.

Grow up.

You'd think that your training underwear would get old like you, but you're still forgetting to go to the bathroom on your own.
Gee wizz, you femme bot.  Put your mojo away and mother your children.  It is ridiculous.




I want to feel proud in being yours.
I am not proud to be yours.
Why did you not try and give me a reason.
Why are you chasing after empty dreams.
Why aren't you dreaming new things.
Why can't you.

I'm just frustrated with your baby talk.