The city of Roses

In a place where life and culture live

I find myself enthralled

A meshed up mass of thriving people

Living for today.

This is Portland.

The beauty of the city

Oozes through its pores.

Rich in taste, poor in heart

With sunken empty eyes

All they do is stare

The streets are clean

A great respect

For all things still and silent

But lost within the sidewalk cracks,

Is the truth that hides inside us.

A tree stands still when I walk by

She is young but sees it all

I ask her and she tells me

The homeless Burt is dead

And no one gave a CRAP

You see the rich and famous

The dirty, the poor

Living in a cramped up space

But their eyes all look the same

A salad not a soup.

To endlessly look for happiness

Is dwelling in a city, alive with art and passion

Alive with sex and drugs

But somehow, it’s not there

Cause pain is rooted deep

A quality of life, But:

Be lonely.

Be lost.

Be broken.

Be tired.

Then cover it up with makeup.

Cause people can’t see what I can see.

La corde cassée

All those broken lives weigh heavy the heart.

They knotted ropes that once were strong,

Broke easy with the lies.

When does such deception start?

When once the rope so strong,

Grew fragile in the throng.

The vicinity of hearts so near

Yet walls lie in between,

And that is when it stops.

The love that still exists,

Is hidden by the stone

Friendship dies

Healing = prodigious wait.

Patience is a virtue.

Wait with all the loving heart.

Grow fonder, but never give up.

Jesus didn’t.

He waited so he could die.

For you, for me.

He loved so he could die.

Precious sacrifice

Take that love and make it count

patch the broken rope

slowly, gently, always mending

But-this time be humble.

Pride becomes the lies,

and lies become the death of as all.

Jésus est le chemin, la fin.

Prodding.

Whispers, and words, and the sound of Beating hearts.

I feel them, speaking in my head.

Constant, never ceasing.

The Pain, the Void, the Lost without the love.

Wishing, hoping, masking, all the cranium.

Prodigious pain, Myriad guilt, condemning blue, brown, green eyes

Perfect faces-perfect teeth. Always smiling, but never happy.

Smile.

Laugh.

Drown.

Die.

Whoever gave permission to tell that sullen lie?

Smell, speak, hear, touch, taste, the memories

How much they mean.

How much the hurt.

How much they stay the same.

Tainted, trusted, taken back. Always holding, scoffing stealthy grasp----------

What time is it?

What is time?

Not mine, not yours.

Not anyone’s.

Its just there.

Feeding lies, and making chains, and growing guilt inside.

False.

The broken is familiar
Where time is not alone.
Humility is a lie,
And death is Real.
----listen to the cry
It Flies in Faces
Hides in Darkness
and Never says Goodbye
Can smiles be real?
Will love run dry?
All those shaken promises,
Pungent, evil words
Who will ever hear them?
and YOU WONDER WHY WE ARE ALL SO INSECURE------
I met a boy.
He had a Mole.
All the [pretty] people looked away.
They were so much better.
Whatever happened to a God of love and acceptance?
He still exists, but no one knows,
Because all the unbelievers…….
They Can’t see HIM in us.

The Forest

The rays of sunlight touch my face
The trees reach for me
I hear the sound of the water fowl
Crying out a plea

I see the ripple on the lake
The leaves try and grab me
I listen to the forest
Crying out a plea

My feet start running
The forest calls me
I feel a presence all around
Crying out a plea

I stop, breathless and tired
Darkness engulfs me
I hear the wolves howl
Crying out a plea

I close my weary eyes
The forest endangers me
It cannot hear me
Crying out a plea

My eyes are open
The forest left me
But I hear it whisper
Crying out a plea

I wanted to believe I wasn't different at all.
I just love Jesus.
I believed I would fit in with all of the other Jesus lovers, and finally people would understand me.
This is not the case, I am a black sheep that lives a life of self righteous pride, because I am different. Weird. Misunderstood, mature, wise. Joan of Arc was different. She was a warrior she fought for her cause.

Dear forgiven.

Let me tell you about the words you used to say, about your name making my heart stop. About your glance making me feel like the most important person in the world. About the times you shook my hand and pretended to be diplomatic. Those were the days I was in love, I read your books and I answered your questions and all the while I couldn't breathe when you were around.

I tried so hard to make you love me. You were the only thing I talked about; you were the only thing I cared about. I wanted you with me every second of the day, I wanted your love and security, and wanted your white teeth smiling at me. You would hold my hand and everything was right, I was safe secure, nothing could hurt me. Your drove me in your car and we would smoke hookah in the back, I can still smell it. The taste of watermelon is still on my tongue from when you told me to inhale. It all felt right. You were my security blanket.

Then one day I received the news, it was all a lie, you liked the power. You enjoyed holding my heart in your hands, the bruises on my body were all for a lie. You enjoyed holding my beating heart in your hands, and you knew how often it stopped. That day you ripped off a chunk of and threw the rest on the ground, then left, because you had someone else's heart in the palm of your hand.

"Be good to her" I said. And then I cried, for all the times you kissed my cheek, and all the memories.

Then there was Jesus, he picked up my heart, wiped off all the dirt, and held it in the palm of his hands. He looked at me with all of the love I ever dreamt about and said

"Little one, may I be your security blanket?"

So I wrapped my new blanket around me, and I was safe.

Then He put Neosporin on all of the scars, and finally the pain went away. I could feel my heart beat again, and that’s when I learned how to forgive.

I forgive you.

Love,

Little One.