How much happier would we be if we learned to breathe on our own again?
Unplugged our digital oxygen tanks,
And remembered what made our hearts vibrate like foghorns.
What if we fed on honeysuckle-speckled fields
And sipped in stars next to our love?
What if we showed up to our lives instead of showing them off?
Inspiration–well, I guess that’s the enigma.
Sometimes it stalks us just as an understudy waits for his chance to be noticed,
Patiently mouthing every line verbatim while hidden behind mildew curtains.
Often times, a fire waits to erupt until one is ready for it.
Wet wood won’t birth a spark until every part is fashioned; ready for its purpose.
Poetry doesn’t always feel good until it’s been given time to settle.
A medicine that doesn’t work–until it does.
For now, I’ll slouch back and move on with a sour stomach,
Hoping for a honeyed aftertaste.
Started with calloused skin.
But as I tried to peel away dead cells
The cracks became crevices–dug-out little rabbit holes burrowed in my foot.
An uneven landscape of newborn peaks and ancient ruins.
Jaunty shuffles through the carpet whilst living a cautionary tale.
I guess one should know the difference between what needs replacing and what just needs glue.
We bob up and down 295,
And I’m just lounging back,
Spring feet on the dashboard.
Naked toes as I unearth thoughts.
Bending down to pick each one up,
Like Easter eggs cradled in green blades.
I look back and realize that God uses Springtime to breathe Resurrection wind into my collapsing lungs.
Inflate, inflate, inflate.
Old reveries dust themselves off
To the pitch of d-flat major.
Paradoxical can be cathartic; sweet with a melancholy aftertaste.
God pulls the tides by lunar strings,
Weaving patterns through the swelling crests,
Perfectly orchestrating each drop into submission.
It’s eyes adjusting to the unfiltered light,
While bumbling through a meadow speckled in wildflowers—
Bursting red, purple, and yellow life!
You’ve not remembered their name for two decades, but yet you’ve loved them.
At first glance, you’ve reasoned you don’t need a name to love something inexplicably.
I so vehemently want to peel away these onion layers of thought.
Wipe up the layer of soupy fog.
I feel one thought away from a lobotomy, one second from being overthrown.
But I will stake my existence on You seeing me without magnification.
On a dark night outside and inside, I plaster myself to my Heavenly Father’s promises for my life.
:screams:” It doesn’t matter how I feel. It doesn’t matter what I see. My hope will always be in Your promises to me.”