listening to jazz

Every once 

in a while there is 

a nervous looking black child 

an interesting 

one - with no parent that

reads the magazine

or parleys with

another parent

on what one might

consider well meaning 

about fear, 

about careers, 

about

the local 

daycare 

Naturally, I err closer to the child

and I would greet him 

with an awkward first

hand shake or 

maybe a high five 

if I'm 

feeling it

He got a B in science

and he definitely

earned it

man versus gravity

earth, music

ecology

the ocean it does 

nothing 

but it gets the credit for

being breathtaking

Every Wednesday I go up to the hall

I imagine the child sitting

at the corner 

we listen to jazz

ashamed

frightened 

to be

lonely

I craft him paper 

stars 

they shine with 

the radiance of the sun 

only for him

the way nothing else can

I hear the dry sound of 

skin 

against skin

the bigger story arc

that tries to overtake

the secondary

plot 

that drives

both our stories

I tell him, 

"That is what the jazz is for."

sky full of song

i am drenched by the sky full of song
it fell from there and landed on my tongue
i savor its striking metallic taste, like that
that i garner from my old life
but it won't be regret that i harbour but
the gladness that im a different person
with a different nature
suppose for it to be understood
you have to let go of the vignette of vision
where all things that you should've known by now
must have been hiding.

it isn't like what i expected it to be at all
like i mentioned to my reflection
every little thing about your warm-blooded flesh matters
there's a reason why breathing is involuntary;
you do not have to make the effort
to pull your lungs out
and push it back again to breathe a breath.

one by one
you'd see white speckles of galaxy
appear above your skin crafted by artistry
and history shaped like trees, oak savannah
sycamore, and buckeye, the wind won't
grapple and take it away
sweep it far away, no way it can.

sheets of thin glass
softly attach to the navy blue like,
a curve joining the successive peaks of
a modulated wave; i hope you get a grip of it, too.

one
day
some
day

now
you must be hearing it

dear heart

Here I am struggling to write something and staring at the course of a blinking cursor waiting for words to crawl out my jaded brain. ~

My heart is little anxious. It pursues matters that are too great; complex wonders that I'm not yet ready to understand. It chases after the unknown and argues with each thought that arrives in ones or in twos. I feel defeated. I feel exhausted; no energy left to juice out.

My heart is thirsty. It lacks water. It lacks desparation for God. What does that mean?
My prayers have been repeated and it seems like words that flow out of my mouth fall flat - good chance they mean nothing. What does it mean to say that Jesus is my everything? What does it mean to live for His purpose? I am back at the beginning point not knowing what to do even though it was already established. My eyes drift from a far place; far from home; far from my Father.

My heart is in pain. I struggle every waking moment. Sin does not declare war. It knocks on your door and befriends you. It deceives. The devil laughs throwing his head back stirring fear to who it knows to be faithless. I may be cornered by darkness but I am subdued by the light. He delivered me and will continue to deliver me. By grace through faith, I am saved. He has called me saved. I then, must reject pride to live set apart.

My heart is broken. I try to build and put the shattered pieces back together but it ends up being done in vain. Fruitless. Brokenness is an everyday state. It took a while for me to see that. I resented being broken because I wanted to always look kept together. Choosing Jesus takes a lot of sacrifice. But what is that compared to His ultimate sacrifice? He who had no sin became sin.

Dear heart know this,

"How deep the Father's love for us                          
How vast beyond all measure
That He should give His only Son
To make a wretch His treasure

How great the pain of searing loss
The Father turns His face away
As wounds which mar the Chosen One
Bring many sons to glory..."

We had our mid-year prayer and fasting in our church and the overall theme was "Beauty in Brokenness". I just like to share that the process of seeing my brokenness wasn't what I expected. Day one to three had me wrestling with words but God remained silent. I couldn't hear Him. I was longing for an encounter but really I wasn't desparate for it. I wasn't desparate for God. I said the same prayers and grew tired. My mind kept running in circles. I let out a breath and spent a few minutes before leaving the house to examine myself. I had to pull back because it just didn't feel right to come to God with a blocked heart and refuse to be honest with Him. God uses the operation of our choices.We must choose to let Him speak to us and then He will. No matter how many times I ask God to fill me, it would be pointless for I am a cracked pot. He needs to empty and make me whole first. And the process is painful. 

As I listened to the last message, my eyes started to well up in tears as God touched my very heart and I felt it. He spoke and I heard it. He broke me right then and there fully and completely. I was overwhelmed and I tried to resist crying in the middle of the theater. I felt a sincere kind of longing. I couldn't wait for the individual prayer time. I was expectant in my waiting. 

Though, I tell you it wasn't easy. 

I will never forget the feeling I felt that night. I saw Jesus clearer than the skies. I was lost in His eyes that looked to me so full of grace. How can a holy God treasure someone so useless? Jesus, Himself is the beauty in brokenness. I am pressed and crushed. But forth and forever, I will choose to depend and place my hope in the Lord who will never leave me nor forsake me. 

a tunnel through the rain

even though your mother would not approve of you

speaking to a sea witch who has powers 

you bargain because that little adventure 

seeps through your veins and it oh so tempting. 

is this all a play with people trying to lure you away 

and sell you things that don't make you any

richer or smarter, whatsoever? 

the society always seems to be superior to dead girls

it says that they made the wrong choice 

and tries to open your eyes 

on how they took the wrong path of the wild

it plays on morale. 

it won't stop you until you alter something

but when you're older 

and you believe that the world is there and it's a forest

your story becomes a 

a truth teller and a warning
that literature would dispose off of
and use to serve for other people's narratives. 

florence

it's always the darkest before dawn
the cerulean forest nymph carried on through
with the warm light bulb behind her back
we only know one thing for sure
it looks so free and wild
leaping and flowing seamlessly with nature
so intense with all the radiance that it brings
it isn't safe to ask for anyone's name
around here
so I whisper quietly
it flies around the translucent drapes
they hang on the ceiling
touching and reaching
depicting saints as they extend
their arms to
mortals for healing miracles
each hunger echoes so loudly and yet
though I keep things deep to myself
they hear me too
it stands there first
and motions you to take the leap
though there is nothing
that could stay with it for long

the kiosk means something

as I tell myself, "just start"
my eyes become heavier
and my heart harder to carry
it seems that there isn't anywhere
I can begin

I stroll around
with confetti in my left hand
goals in my right hand
fascination outward
chaos inside

I feel like that newspaper hitting
that tall post that anybody would try and
avoid
but I
I bump into it with conviction
and I let the hard wind hit me
the kiosk is filled with faded words today
things gone and have departed
it's full of old stuff nobody says anymore
but it's still well standing
waiting for a visitor
I hope it's glad that today
it's me

I think about
you and me
we could be mad representations
of geography
we tell ourselves stories and
ignore the media to live in books
sometimes it feels like we're there
but we're really just...here

no, we don't represent geography
we cheat it
we exist in two places
here & there

we're all standing in this world for something
I remember all
but all is only this to me
and that might just be a thought
for a good start

S 'wonderful

First, I want you to know

That I’m changing my life

And second, you’re coming

And hopefully, flying with me

There is something so therapeutic about

Writing down my successes each night

I only have one hundred days

I only have that long to deliberately make

Things happen and stop skipping meals

No, seriously

Change turns usual routines into beautiful
Fireflies dancing around intertwined dark forests

Sometimes I look up and I see only black

But they will come along and I would believe

And I would be proud of myself

It’s exhilarating to imagine

That one day I could light my world
With my collection of change

My beautiful yellow fireflies

So, this week I’ve been trying

To have something

And to experience it every second

It’s working well

S’marvelous

No, seriously

It’s my favorite feeling in the world!