The Laodicean

could I be better than this?
it's like I never forget
what it's like to begin.
I'm at the disadvantage
of viewing the world
from inside my own head.
I've supplied my apathetic best
let her fly out from her nest
she flew longer than the rest
but now we're wondering
how life up high can feel so dead


Heaven is coming soon.
but am I ready?
Jerusalem is coming soon
but no one is ready.


is this supposed to be wealth?
as if the clothes that I have
could redeem men from hell.
so when I land in the grave
I want to know that I gave
what I could to Your name.
Redeemer, please don't spit me out
lukewarm from Your mouth
into the unforgiving drought
Jesus, show me
how life held high can not fall dead.


Heaven is coming soon.
but am I ready?
Jerusalem is coming soon
but no one is ready.


when You ride in
on that white horse
let it not be said that I was lukewarm.

The Rise of the Lefthander

Judges 3:12-30 is the inspiration here. One of my favorite moments in the Bible. It may or may not also have something to do with the fact that I am left handed...

Forget what you know.

I don't know what to expect.
They'll never give me a second thought.
If they had their way,
I wouldn't breathe another breath.
Who am I to Judge?
The Hand of God should act through this?
This body is a handicap.
This "man" I am, is stunted, worthless.

Forget what you know.
He chooses those who are small and slow.
Warriors and sages can just stay home.
Forget what you know.

These kings, these gluttons.
They enslave to fill their bellies.
Consume. More power.
Decree. Devour.
Give them a little something to digest
Bypass the throat and all the rest
Plunge in the blade they can't resist
They will be judged for the lives they wreck.

I am a witness to the rise of the lefthander.
to the war of the blind and deaf.
So the kings can't help but remember
The name of Him who they cannot match.

the useless shall be used.
the forgotten shall be remembered.
the inept shall become the best.
and the weak shall become the fearless.

This is the rise of the lefthander.
This is the war of the blind and deaf.
So the world can't help but remember
The name of Him who they cannot match.

An eighteen inch blade with two sharp sides,
strapped tight to my right thigh.
it's got a message from God inscribed
to be delivered to these "kings' " insides.
But I've fought this war long enough to know
Courage is never the same when you're away from home
So God of the weak, lefthanded, and tired,
Give me Your courage when mine has expired.

The Vibrant

You want the colors to explode.
You want to see the mountains dance.
but you gotta see it through.

black can't hold a second
against the pastels in your brain.
but they never stay the same
you never give them names,
you never walk them out
or let them stay.

Substantiate.
plant the seed.
fight the soil.
watch the sky all day,
and you'll never see a thing.
Substantiate.

Your lust for life is lackluster.
how can you claim so much fire,
but never light a thing?
you tell us of the songs of Heaven
but you never even sing.

Your lust for life is lackluster.
Substantiate.

As You Were

This was never supposed to be me. I swear, I swear, I swear.

Walk through darkened door frames
paying no mind to the broken glass
accompanying fragments of your past
that invite themselves into my feet.
Crawl under blood-soaked sheets,
and make believe…
"This is as real as it gets.
the sun doesn't need my light to see."
I never saw my hands in the pitch black
rotting away from me.

God, am I even a man?
I've tried to be a child again.
I got what I wanted,
but I don't want what I have.

As you were.
don't mind at all.
Carry on becoming beautiful.
As you were.
leave me to resolve
the pain I am and the man I haven't been.

won't You stop loving me?
I could never forget.
something I could never be
is alone.

crawl under blood-soaked sheets,
and make believe...

I have painted the walls with the souls of us all
and left them to dry without a word
(could You ever stop loving me?)
I walked out the door, pulling the curtain behind
and buried the rest in the dirt
(I could never forget.)
I went through the streets like a man without need
with the child curling up in my throat
(something I could never be)
The war in my heart chose to bleed from my hands
along with the words I never wrote
(I could never be alone.)

As you were.
leave me to resolve
the pain I am and the man I haven't been
As you were.
Don't mind at all.
I know Grace is beautiful.

and I could never be alone.

I'm Anti-Clutter

This one was an interesting project. There's parts that I really like, and some not so much. But that came with the territory; I had the idea to sit down and write something with no plan, no pre-concieved ideas in my head. I sat down and closed my eyes, and just started writing whatever came out. Slightly ironic that it begins with "there is nothing to say." As lines followed lines, it began to take shape into the final product. While there was no original theme or subject in mind, I can now apply it to moments in my life. I don't recommend this approach to writing, in fact I almost always think of theme first and then write. But it was a fun process, and though a little nonsensical, I still like it.

There is nothing to say.
and I want it that way.
It ends. It fades.
It churns, catches fire, and drowns all the same.
I gave it a name.
I gave it a terrible name.
Was it without reason? This terrible name?
Because as it was, it existed.
As it is, it remains.
Meaning it stays dead, not plays dead.
So being that I named it, and my own lips phrased it,
had I any effect on the impending wreck?
And if so was it direct,
or of the side-variety?
Which is to say is it the name that ends it,
or another's propriety?
Nonetheless, it was I who named it,
labeled, and framed it.
But would it have ended the same,
were it without a name?
It isn't I who would know.
Which just goes to show,
that regardless of a name
the control existed not on this plane.
It's a fruitless debate.
It ended name, no name, fate, no fate.
There is nothing to say.
But I spoke anyway.

Siberian Tiger Does Not Rhyme With Spaghetti

it's kinda cold out here, baby
it's kinda cold
I think you must be crazy
cause it's cold out here, baby!

I've never felt it like this before.
And honestly it scares me.
What these eyes will try to hide
the nerve endings will tell every single time.
Your blood smells of irony.
Mocking the fact that you're here.
And it creates unsavory colors
in the ice that it covers.
If these temperatures speak of futures
and these shivers of our hearts
then my fears have been confirmed
and we are crumbling apart.
The fog joins hands with the moon
and they stand before the sun.
I don't know what day it is.
oh, how long? How far from the House are we now?

We march on to the invisible north
with every step forgetting home.
I never wanted to come out here,
but I guess I didn't want you alone.

How can you bleed in this weather?

Heaven

When I was sixteen I saw Heaven
if just for a second
A glimpse of the thousands upon millions
Celebrating final Victory
Endlessly. Timelessly.
Eternity, in a fragment.

You didn't let me stay,
but I'll be back.