The Sound of Coming Again

Tell me all your secrets,

I'll tell you mine.

I'm tired of this wasting of time.

We all know how it slips through our fingertips,

But if you don't know, you soon will,

I am spilling

All the paint

All the water

All the oil

All the spoils

Whisper your secrets

I'll whisper mine,

We can breathe life

We can breathe

I don't know if you were breathing.

I know at many a moment, I really wasn't.

It still seems hard to breathe.

And the sounds are raindrops on the windows

And the sounds are tears flooding into

Something of a river of things never flowed

Unanswered

Answered

Undercurrent trying still

Still trying

Still

You know me all too well.

Yet sometimes I don't know myself at all.

Secrets on the wind

Coming again.

Come again

Rivers

The feelings are odd as something waited for for a short lifetime look as if moments could close themselves to what has been waited for. So long waited for. But there are still questions, there is still doubt, even now, and its hard not to run for a bag to hyperventilate in. There is an unusual stirring, and I cannot even imagine how the other side is breathing.

I'm at a loss for words, and at a loss for emotion because I cannot always seem to feel what I am feeling. When I look into the river of my emotions I am overwhelmed by the current that has built up for years and could overtake and swallow me whole. Some of these feelings might not even be bad feelings, but they are still just as overwhelming as I have held myself at arms length from this ongoing river of emotion....Not feeling all that I should, because back then it was so overwhelming, I don't even want to know what it has become now.

States

Sometimes the focus is so much on the self that we are scrambling to fix ourselves with everything we have and we step on so many people along the way. We are so fixed on our brokenness that we are stuck in yesterdays problems that when we realize the problems that were building up today, today has ceased, and tomorrow is yesterday and into last year.

Our eyes are so far focused backwards that we are running into the things we don't see as we still walk forwards, our feet not able to hold the capability of turning around and turning back time. We keep watching the film that has been of our lives, and watch and watch and watch to see if we did something different in our past, to see if the next viewing of our tragic tale has a different story, but the film remains unchanged because it has already passed, and we're wishing for a different story, but we can't quite change was has been.

Our eyes seem to focus on the wrong things as we miss the story as it is happening. We miss out on participating on our own lives, making terrible mistakes because we want to feel loved by all the people around us, and to feel acknowledged and wanted and worthy, when really, all along, we want to acknowledge our Father above, but we can't because we can accept human love so much more than we can even begin to accept the knowledge that we truly are loved by our Heavenly Father.

We want to see, but we can't because our past is all too colorful or dull to leave it behind us, where it belongs. Our future is always another story, and is always a guessing game at fiction, and is, quite possibly, another large waste of our time. Our focus seems to be very limited to what we see in these present moments, and in this constant moment that we are stuck in. We seem to never quite know what to do with it, or how to use this clicking that goes on so passionately in front of our true eyes. We live in our world of thoughts. Where are our thoughts lined out? Upon the railroad tracks, we can see in front of us, and behind us, but miss our scenery, and miss the people, and miss the ride we are riding, and the cotton candy we are tasting because our hearts are fixed on dead things.

A state of death, when all we ever really wanted was life.
Staring in the bitter glass can become a waste of time.

The Centaur

The Centaur sings her jazz.
Smooth and soft,
moving through the bass strings like water
water rippling through the soul,
washing it clean,
mixing its thoughts for moments.
Sacred moments through soul pouring
Pouring of the soul,
Smooth to float on the water like oil,
Soaking the heart in healthy movements,
Smearing paint with a thumb,
Sometimes cold to the touch,
Sometimes blue, but always warm,
Luke-warm was never an option.
Songs pour out as she walks the side walks,
Her legs not quite human, her pace contemplating.
She is a rarity of kinds,
Her mind spins with the movements,
Her natures always at war,
Her heart always pouring jazz through the holes made by crooked hands,
Crooked smiles, crooked intentions,
Human.
The sounds pour out through the holes,
Soothing, smoothing out aches by the color blue.
Blue smeared here and there,
The walk is always noble,
A great capacity for ferociousness,
A great capacity to rise above crookedness,
Crooked sites on a gun,
Never hitting what they are aiming for.
Capacity for two extremes,
Jazz pours out her mouth like a sea.
Glad I learned how to swim.

All that and a bag of Spinach Leaves.

Praise God for friends. The people that are there to lift us up in prayer, to speak truth into our lives when all we're doing is believing lies.
I like to believe lies more often than not because sometimes, the reality of my own weakness makes me sick. I want to be super strong and be able to handle things on my own. I find myself falling captive to thinking that I am better than other people, thinking I am worth more, thinking straight out of the dungeon of pride that seems to enslave me. I get so lost within myself, within my thoughts, my dreams, things I'm hearing, things I'm seeing, that I have a hard time to just, be.

We know we are not meant to just, exist...but the real troubles fall into what we are supposed to do instead of MERELY exist. I find myself merely existing all too frequently, even when I believe I am at the center of God's will. Is this me making a harder time for myself? Maybe. But maybe I'm not yielding to God in such a way that I can surrender, submit, and grow into something more that he is calling me to be, instead of trying to impress people with this something that I am, that I frequently think I brought myself to be. All the flawed parts, yes, I brought those to the table, but I would not be anywhere without the grace of God.

It is hard to be obedient.
It is hard to stay in the same place and not run.
Running is a thing I'm so good at.
My heart is aching to get out,
Because circumstances before my first breath wanted to run out,
And indeed, they ran.
Why shouldn't I run then,
When things get hard, and seasons change?
Why shouldn't I run?
Am I believing that the grass is greener,
Or that the lemons are more yellow?
Do I believe the bitterness will recede when I am no longer in this spot for more than a minute?
Will I find my answers?
Will my answers be revealed to me?
Did I stop fighting a long time ago?
When did mysticism become the reality
Is it reality.
To stay in these spots.
To wear these spots.
To be.
Not to be.
Existing.
Merely.
Purely?
Purity was never the question or answer.

Language tapes

Its like I'm in serious need of some creamer.
But I'm not like in serious need. I am in need.
Like I'm in need of a lot of things.
But really they are not serious needs, but serious wants.
More like wanting some creamer is moreover just serious want.
And I ache at my insecurities.
I ache at things that make me ache that I don't realize
Once realized, tend to overcome.
I'm seeing and I'm being overcome, and I don't quite know how to respond.
I don't know how to respond.
My feelings fall into a line of profane words, though the words themselves are just adjectives that are not really what they mean anyway, so say what you mean.
Say what you mean.
Pleasing people makes me ache
Because I do it too
Words for you might be for me
Hidden, but true,
And its hard when you're not in line
As it seems I've not quite been in line
And obliviousness falls on my head
And then I feel the heat
And I see I've been on the fringe of burning.
On the fringe.
Listening to language tapes
All she hears, is birds.

Misconstrewd

Red ran out a month ago
Couldn't paint.
Thought I'd use indigo
But no one really bleeds indigo.
Too bad we're nothing without oxygen tanks
We like our oxygen like we like our water
Enough of it to sustain our life
We think we're about life
But we put on death
Like a mars black paint,
We've got plenty left
As Picasso thought he was being wise
If I don't have red, use blue
He forgot that the red being blue is not true
Red being blue is not true
Red being blue is not you,
It so does not look good on you,
The lines on your face, blue not red
Leaves me wondering why you're There and not Here
Stuck in your world of bluish tears.
Red ran out a month ago
Couldn't Paint.
Thought to use a substitute
But could I really substitute lie for Truth?
Where is your misconception?

Degrees of Hot and Cold

Degrees
Only a matter of degrees

Only a matter of words from my mouth between the degrees of your happiness and your sadness.
Only a matter of words between your love and your hate
Only a matter of words between your forgiving and unforgiving heart
Who gave you the right not to forgive when you're forgiven
Permanent stains washed clean.
Permanent death, made free
Breath of life, breathed
Only a matter of words can mean
The world to you or me,
Only a matter of sound degrees.

Mud

There is a door shut in my face
The door bears your name
And I've given you the locks
I've locked you out as well.
It's been a one sided wishing well,
Sometimes I'm never doing well,
I shut you out a long time ago, and, well...
Pride needs to be swallowed like dirt in the water.
Muddy water is not clearly seen through,
And I can't quite see you
Its true.
I've given you pain because I myself am a tortured being,
Not being means for an excuse to be a sadist
And forgiveness from you might be a nice thing to have,
But being sorry is what I can give.
What you do is your release
You are not licensed for what you do
You can hang on, let go, or go,
You do what you please.
You please yourself, you please no one.
We are our own worst critic,
Nothing worth striving for.
I've always wondered who you would be if you could be anyone.
Sometimes I wonder if you would want to be yourself,
Because you are the coolest person you know.
I don't really know you,
But I know me,
I know I'm sorry.
I know I'd rather not have hurt you,
I'm not as heartless
As stone cold as you think.

Boats and Birds and Stray Dogs

Itching in the back of my throat
lets me know again the things that have passed are passing again.
With speed and curiosity the changes move
Quickly going without questions
Without warnings,
And I forgot to clean up
And I forgot to prepare
And the sky blackens
New storms arise.
Roots go down deep as they always have
But the changes of color,
I was never ready for it.
I was never ready for the changes.
I am never ready for the changes
And surprise is a face I often wear.
The sky is the limit but it is too cold for ice cream
Too cold for cold
And coats become a thing of today
Fashion becomes irrelevant as the biting jaws gnash their teeth
And the thickest, the layers cover,
And the warmth is something to be captured
And I am captured curling up next to my movements to get blood flowing
To get the heat going.

And I'm still cold.
But warm in heart.
Because it is a new change.
And one I'm not accustomed to.
But fresh hope, fresh things held inside
A greenhouse sits in my soul where it did not sit before
And death has fallen away as the leaves fall away
And as snow makes its way
There are the things hidden in a greenhouse
Things that will grow. Are growing. Have grown.
The sign reads,
"This is a place of life."

There is still surprise at this new revelation founded by the graphic designer getting paid too little to care about what the sign actually says.