I am a Writer

I am a writer
Not a singer, lyricist, or painter, thought sometimes I dabble
I bring words to life
Some envy what I’ve been blessed with when others simply don’t get it
Books, ink, and paper
I don’t require much to live, even food I oft go without
Coffee, sunlight, peace
A place to ponder existence or word rhyme and placement
God, life, love, my craft
No matter how complicated, it always boils down to some basic essentials
Form is not freedom
I do not lock my words into cages or rhyme or construction
Let the meaning shine
Mostly use the conformity as a game: just see if you can do it
Don’t force the message
When the ink no longer talks you cannot for it to speak
This is your life line
This keeps you alive, sane, and helps define your views
You are not speaking
Let that deepness in you rise up and be heard
I am a writer
So I cannot be limited by anything but myself
I bring words to life
So I will continue to until my syllables no longer breathe

He Loves Us All

Welcome to Christianity
Grace and forgiveness preached
But condemnation and hate practiced
Jesus washed away my sins
But the church took pictures so we can look over them again
I once was lost, now I’m just confused
I thought Christ loves us all…why has He just forgiven you?

My Write Hand's Worth

In centuries if someone should stumble onto my art
Will they be able to see into my heart?
What pictures will words draw?
What conversations will a sketch provoke?
Will the years of pain and absence dominate the scene?
Or will grace and forgiveness be my central theme?
Would I write so I’m remembered?
Or so a message is conveyed?
Is my creativity therapeutic?
Or simply to get paid?
Would hours be wasted, along with ink and trees?
Or would one poem bring a grown man to his knees?
Do I talk about Father more than I do the pain?
Or is the picture of sunlight intensified by the rain?
Would they even decipher the flow of my pen?
Would the half scribbled letters let anyone in?
Would my lack of form be the purists’ disdain?
Or do I fall in the list of the beautifully insane?
Will I die before it’s discovered; will I know my works fame?
Will the art be lifted up, whilst no writing remains?
Will God let me see how His gift is at work?
Or will I always question my write hands worth?

Musings from Campus - 8-18-08

Here I sit in front of my window, overlooking campus, listening to pissed off rap music wondering why I’m so bitter when overall today has been a very good day. Is it Satan trying to set a piss-poor mood for this upcoming semester? Is it my own stagnant spiritual life that is finally catching up with my heart? Why am I forced to travel in such a crazy pattern of circles?

Maybe I just like fighting with God. Maybe that’s why I can’t seem to just accept things, and why I question. I don’t know. My mind is running to fast to put things down.