Here it is again,
This monster in me.
It grabs hold of me,
Choking out what is good.
It hurts, it hits, it hates,
It holds my head up in pride.
It spits in her face with every stride.
Me, I don’t like it.
I hate being this monster.
I clench my teeth,
And ball my hands into fists.
I hope the monster stays away,
But it increases my heart rate,
Explodes, stinging the prey.
How long must I battle it?
How long will I give in?
How many more times will I become its puppet?
I try, I cry and hope to die,
But all that doesn’t disguise,
Or demise,
The monster that eats me inside.
God smite the insect.
Crush the beast.
Guard my heart on which it hopes to feast.
Make me clean.
Make me better.
Tear away this scarlet letter.
Strip me down.
Mold this clay.
Slash and slay this snake away.
Place a lock on me, no monster can control.
How could I cause another to cry?
How could I slander your name?
The hypocrite must die.
I’m sorry…
I’m sorry…
I’m sorry.
Forgive me for their pain.
Here is goes again…
My remorse.
My plea.
But God please make this the end
Of the monster in me.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
The Colors of My Questions
The more and more I learn in life,
The more questions I have.
The more I think I’ve come to know myself, find myself,
The more I wonder if I really get me at all.
The more life reveals its secrets and methods,
And the more I feel I’m getting the hang of this thing,
The more I feel life slipping through my hands like grains of sand.
The more and more I come to know my God;
The more and more I understand His truth;
The more and more I experience His grace, and mercy, and power…
The more I see that His ways are not my ways
And I really don’t comprehend Him at all.
As truth comes, so do questions.
What do I do with them all?
I wish I could write them down all on little pieces of paper—multicolored paper.
Green for difficult ones,
Like what does it mean to really be in love?
Or Who am I supposed to be?
Purple for the questions called: why?
Like, Why can’t humans fly?
Or Why isn’t my dad here with me?
Ocean blue for all the questions seeking to figure out exactly who God is…
Does He cry?
What did He do before He created the universe?
What does His hair smell like?
Will He ever stop forgiving me?
After writing all my questions down,
I’d crumple them all up,
And stick them in a bright red balloon,
Fill it with helium and let go.
After my questions have all been released,
I’d walk barefoot along the beach…
Or maybe go get some ice-cream.
The more questions I have.
The more I think I’ve come to know myself, find myself,
The more I wonder if I really get me at all.
The more life reveals its secrets and methods,
And the more I feel I’m getting the hang of this thing,
The more I feel life slipping through my hands like grains of sand.
The more and more I come to know my God;
The more and more I understand His truth;
The more and more I experience His grace, and mercy, and power…
The more I see that His ways are not my ways
And I really don’t comprehend Him at all.
As truth comes, so do questions.
What do I do with them all?
I wish I could write them down all on little pieces of paper—multicolored paper.
Green for difficult ones,
Like what does it mean to really be in love?
Or Who am I supposed to be?
Purple for the questions called: why?
Like, Why can’t humans fly?
Or Why isn’t my dad here with me?
Ocean blue for all the questions seeking to figure out exactly who God is…
Does He cry?
What did He do before He created the universe?
What does His hair smell like?
Will He ever stop forgiving me?
After writing all my questions down,
I’d crumple them all up,
And stick them in a bright red balloon,
Fill it with helium and let go.
After my questions have all been released,
I’d walk barefoot along the beach…
Or maybe go get some ice-cream.
My Lover is Insane
I was once told that normal was only a setting on a washing machine,
And as You called my phone today,
Your foolish words moving from my ear into my heart,
I was convinced this statement true.
An ambassador of Yours explain that one of Your children some 3000 miles away needed a hug
And I, a jar of clay, was to do the task.
How do I tell my mother, my Lover’s gone insane?
The world will write me off as a Looney,
Laughing at my reckless devotion.
As I’ve said before—our love makes no sense.
Yet I am unhinged in Your very presence.
I am captured by the smell of Your breath.
I take off the scarf wrapped up around my neck,
Throwing caution to the wind.
I let down my hair and run into Your arms,
Full speed ahead.
Like a gentleman, You ask:
“May I have this dance?”
And trusting You with my very soul,
I take Your hand,
Close my eyes,
And You lift me off the ground.
And as You called my phone today,
Your foolish words moving from my ear into my heart,
I was convinced this statement true.
An ambassador of Yours explain that one of Your children some 3000 miles away needed a hug
And I, a jar of clay, was to do the task.
How do I tell my mother, my Lover’s gone insane?
The world will write me off as a Looney,
Laughing at my reckless devotion.
As I’ve said before—our love makes no sense.
Yet I am unhinged in Your very presence.
I am captured by the smell of Your breath.
I take off the scarf wrapped up around my neck,
Throwing caution to the wind.
I let down my hair and run into Your arms,
Full speed ahead.
Like a gentleman, You ask:
“May I have this dance?”
And trusting You with my very soul,
I take Your hand,
Close my eyes,
And You lift me off the ground.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
A Cup to Cure the Cold
It's cold out these days...
Actually to be quite honest,
It's more cold within.
I've been searching for a good cup of coffee.
One that might make a difference.
A quick bite to beat the frost.
But these days a buck-fifty-two only affords cheap imitation.
Oh well, I toss my coins on the counter
And wrap my fingers around Joe.
I head for the door,
Hoping the cranky lady behind the cash won't chase me down
When she finds out my money is no gold.
I follow my feet's affair with the sidewalk
To lead me on for an hour.
I drink the cheap, stale coffee
Telling my tongue it tastes good.
Telling my throat,
My stomach,
My bowls...
That this brew will melt away the cold.
Through every sip,
I knew it was all a lie.
But hey...
It's cold out these days.
Actually to be quite honest,
It's more cold within.
Actually to be quite honest,
It's more cold within.
I've been searching for a good cup of coffee.
One that might make a difference.
A quick bite to beat the frost.
But these days a buck-fifty-two only affords cheap imitation.
Oh well, I toss my coins on the counter
And wrap my fingers around Joe.
I head for the door,
Hoping the cranky lady behind the cash won't chase me down
When she finds out my money is no gold.
I follow my feet's affair with the sidewalk
To lead me on for an hour.
I drink the cheap, stale coffee
Telling my tongue it tastes good.
Telling my throat,
My stomach,
My bowls...
That this brew will melt away the cold.
Through every sip,
I knew it was all a lie.
But hey...
It's cold out these days.
Actually to be quite honest,
It's more cold within.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
The Rider
Oh Faithful and True,
Ride in and save me from myself.
My hands are dirty;
My dress is torn.
But you embraced the cross;
You wore the thorns,
For me.
Unworthy me.
Your name is the glue,
That stops this jar of clay from cracking.
Your name is the water,
My cup is lacking.
So fill me.
Fill me up.
Sweet Rider on your pure white horse,
I see the fire in your eyes,
That burn up all lies,
Spoken to me.
Set me free.
My precious Prince,
I am thrown to my knees;
I melt like honey from the bees.
For you.
Yes you,
Have clothed me in robes brand new.
The silk upon my skin says,
I am freed from my sin.
And at our wedding the heavens rejoice,
At the tune of my choice,
To follow the voice,
Shouting:
I have bought you back beloved.
I Faithful and True,
Relentlessly pursued;
Erased wrongs that you do.
Now rise.
Ride in and save me from myself.
My hands are dirty;
My dress is torn.
But you embraced the cross;
You wore the thorns,
For me.
Unworthy me.
Your name is the glue,
That stops this jar of clay from cracking.
Your name is the water,
My cup is lacking.
So fill me.
Fill me up.
Sweet Rider on your pure white horse,
I see the fire in your eyes,
That burn up all lies,
Spoken to me.
Set me free.
My precious Prince,
I am thrown to my knees;
I melt like honey from the bees.
For you.
Yes you,
Have clothed me in robes brand new.
The silk upon my skin says,
I am freed from my sin.
And at our wedding the heavens rejoice,
At the tune of my choice,
To follow the voice,
Shouting:
I have bought you back beloved.
I Faithful and True,
Relentlessly pursued;
Erased wrongs that you do.
Now rise.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Painful Honesty
There comes a time when we must be honest with ourselves and the world around us.
Not pretty honesty, politically correct, polite.
Not even kind.
But the honesty that purges out of you,
Confessing and revealing all your bones.
This honesty is no cup of tea, but a brew that strips you bare,
Past the clothes; past the flesh.
Drink it down, this medicine of sorts.
Let it kill the disease that’s been eating you up for so long.
There comes a time when you realize, you’re not the only one in hiding.
Everyone around you is wearing this mask, painted pretty with gold
And somehow each one wonders if they have the only one that is counterfeit.
The Big Man says “ready or not, here I come…” and you scoot as far back in the closet as you can, hoping He won’t see your feet sticking out.
An hour goes by, then another, and another.
Still you won’t let Him find you.
There comes a time when you realize, painful honesty just might change the world.
That maybe if you swallow the lump that has taken up residence in your throat, belt out that high pitched note, and sing loud enough to crack the crank that controls the mask…
Maybe then we’ll all come out of hiding.
Perhaps then our chains will melt like winter snow and allow room for spring.
This is the time to lie back in the fields of earth, tuck your hands under your head allowing the world to see those unshaven armpits.
But take another look and there amongst the hair is a flower.
Not pretty honesty, politically correct, polite.
Not even kind.
But the honesty that purges out of you,
Confessing and revealing all your bones.
This honesty is no cup of tea, but a brew that strips you bare,
Past the clothes; past the flesh.
Drink it down, this medicine of sorts.
Let it kill the disease that’s been eating you up for so long.
There comes a time when you realize, you’re not the only one in hiding.
Everyone around you is wearing this mask, painted pretty with gold
And somehow each one wonders if they have the only one that is counterfeit.
The Big Man says “ready or not, here I come…” and you scoot as far back in the closet as you can, hoping He won’t see your feet sticking out.
An hour goes by, then another, and another.
Still you won’t let Him find you.
There comes a time when you realize, painful honesty just might change the world.
That maybe if you swallow the lump that has taken up residence in your throat, belt out that high pitched note, and sing loud enough to crack the crank that controls the mask…
Maybe then we’ll all come out of hiding.
Perhaps then our chains will melt like winter snow and allow room for spring.
This is the time to lie back in the fields of earth, tuck your hands under your head allowing the world to see those unshaven armpits.
But take another look and there amongst the hair is a flower.
The Drowning
Is this it?
Love’s murderous hands—holding me under.
Each corner of lung filling with water;
Each tiny capillary busting from pressure.
One moment it’s all about me, it’s what I want.
The next you’ve got me in your hands, whispering “I won’t relent until I have it all…”
The first, second and third death was bearable;
A mere wince at the pain.
But this—this hurts.
You’ve made your way to the core of my heart,
And all must be pushed aside to make room for my true Lover.
Our love makes no sense.
It’s the most complicated, difficult, weakening, and dysfunctional relationship of all—yet something within me says okay.
And I surrender like an addict bowing to her drug.
At my death I wish only to scream, cuss and pound my fist into your chest.
But then I find myself instead weeping in your arms.
I am so mad at your pursuit some days.
And today is one of them…
But here is it: here’s my neck.
Wrap your nail pierced hands and squeeze me into wine.
Love’s murderous hands—holding me under.
Each corner of lung filling with water;
Each tiny capillary busting from pressure.
One moment it’s all about me, it’s what I want.
The next you’ve got me in your hands, whispering “I won’t relent until I have it all…”
The first, second and third death was bearable;
A mere wince at the pain.
But this—this hurts.
You’ve made your way to the core of my heart,
And all must be pushed aside to make room for my true Lover.
Our love makes no sense.
It’s the most complicated, difficult, weakening, and dysfunctional relationship of all—yet something within me says okay.
And I surrender like an addict bowing to her drug.
At my death I wish only to scream, cuss and pound my fist into your chest.
But then I find myself instead weeping in your arms.
I am so mad at your pursuit some days.
And today is one of them…
But here is it: here’s my neck.
Wrap your nail pierced hands and squeeze me into wine.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
