We have moved to theternapause

It’s Sabbath evening.

my hands are filthy.

no matter how I try.

hills turn to cliffside,

I’m hanging on

It’s a lo-ong wa-ay down.

How did I get here?

what rules I’ve broken?

Am I punished, or just lost?

across wind blows

into the night.

and I’m fa-all-i-ing down.

It’s Sunday morning.

The sun has risen

and the night sky is dawn

Am I forgiven?

they say to me

You’re a lo-ong wa-ay off

Good morning, sunshine!

It’s time to awaken.

You have much left to do.

You're off the mountain!

climbing no more

far past fa-all-i-ing off.

It’s after noon, now.

I should feel ecstatic.

I was past it for a while.

I could forget it.

I could move on.

It’s a lo-ong wa-ay back.

What am I seeking?

Why can’t I find it?

When have I misplaced my life?

If I stop looking,

could you say I’ve died?

have I fa-alle-en back?

The sun is setting.

My eyes are burning upward,

I can’t blind myself from the truth.

my love is up there,

cold and alone.

and it’s ca-all-i-ing down.

I must return there.

I can never leave Her,

For He always remembers me.

They’re always waiting

until I come home.

It’s a lo-ong wa-ay down.

It’s Sunday Evening.

my hands are filthy.

Smells blood—It's His to shed

Inside our hearts—He lives instead

Why fight back?

We fear to try

For to try that

we're sure to die.

Why Not Live it,

Why not try it,

Why not give it

all in quiet?

Why we're toiling,

why we're trying—

Lives are roiling,

cause we're dying.

In the beginning God created the heaven and earth./And thus the earth was still without form, and void;/and darkness was upon the face of the deep./And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the deep.

I feel often unfulfilled —I often feel I fail at love— Life is filled with feelings lost; exhausted all to live a whim. While I want to wax as willed, I wait and wonder up above. Wand’ring as a wave accosted stops as soon as I hear Him.

Listen, and you’ll hear Him speak, He whispers to you even now; endowed with power, fearing none, for on that word no sin can stand. Stay instead, and ever seek— Endeavors still will steel a vow! Avowed in scripture, we have won; Long as we heed Father’s command!

I know my Creator cares; He bears to keep me every day. I know that my life is dire, to mire tomorrow not too dim. Daily dodging devil’s dares, I deign to drive the doubts away— a way forward always acquires ire, then no harm on Him.

My Father can make you whole, for holiness is all He is. My Savior can give you hope, for oppression has no more sting. Holy Ghost, and heav’nly host, are desperate to grant your wish! There is no thing that can hold the blessings granted from Our King!

I know only God can Make You Whole, again.

I know only God can Free Your Life from sin.

I know only God can Make You Whole, again.

Today has held the worst pain I’ve ever seen… and I think you know what I mean…..

Personally, I’m enraged; insane, and I blame you for letting the world grow tame.

Tepid tempers tell lies; belied behind every square word is heard a carnal cry--

Inside our minds, and about our throats we choke on jokes to disguise our mired hopes.

Coping until we’ve moped our fill, and still we feel fury furling, and fire invoked!

Everywhere that I look is broken, spoken in hushed murmurs at what’s been awoken.

Low candor people joking; stoking embers burning in somber sorrows, and tantric tomorrows; hoping for the day a man comes our way, and saves us from this calamity wrote in our hearts, and scarred in our minds-- every day praying, denying, crying, because our dreams are dying for no damn fault of our own!     We have no home in the years ahead.

Our life was dead at birth! This earth was cut short and made into lumber; burning to fuel the fires yonder-- of the top one percent of people turning earnings of our lives into something as grand and dandy as a puff of smoke. Our yokes clamped hard, and fast, to dangle gilded bars, and cash, in passing right in front of our faces -just out of reach!- so we reach for air while they’re scouring the earth behind us; transforming our sweat and tears into years of billion dollar beach houses on which their spouses can lounge and lie down. Like a clown, I found myself laughing at a lie that I could no longer believe. Dancing, and prancing, and smiling on a stage built by the men who sent me out there to play my part... and like a good servant, I earnestly entertain.

I find it strange that we spend our lives tied to an idea older than any man should ever stand to think; that we trade our time, and energy to be reimbursed with currency to be exchanged for goods and services we ALL NEED! A novel idea, indeed! But greedy men twisted it into a shadow of what it should be! Well-intentioned millions diligently striving all their lives to afford a legacy that perhaps their children might someday be better off than they themselves are. By far, the grandest lie ever told, was that old money bore gratitude, and funds will run through their fingers into the lingering people below.

“Trickle-down economics?” PREPOSTEROUS! NO GOD DAMNED MAN WITH NINE-HUNDRED GRAND WILL LEND A HELPING HAND WHEN THE TIME COMES! History has shown that the privileged some will NOT gallantly come descending out from the sky on a shining steed to rescue me. Not even to sacrifice a paltry dime when I’m starving in the street. My feet are worn from walking with broken shoes; my clothes are tattered, and I’m abused, begging for dollars and cents, since I can’t be made of use to anyone. The sun is scalding, my body is broken, toiling’s taken its toll on me. You think they’ll come rescue me?! Please.

Forget a token smile, or a passing glance-- for me? They’ll call security.

If you disagree, just see how they ALREADY treat those in need.

Ferguson.

Katrina.

Greece.

Korea.

Flint, Michigan.

Refugees.

Policemen Brutality.

And every week, I see a greater calamity.

It’s manic panicking malady! Peddling promises with honest-to-god Anarchy in Egypt; and Fallout in Fukushima.

Can we close our eyes tight enough to convince us of the lie that we live in a day and age where everyone can survive?

I’ve had my fill of this swill myself, and hell can come tomorrow, but I won’t stand still.

I’m tired of keeping quiet; watching from the sidelines, biding my time-- trying to hide behind humor, or distract myself with movies and laughter. After all I’ve seen, and all I’ve heard, I’m out of polite words to sell everyone else on the story that we don’t really need to be concerned.

I’m burnt out of patience; debasement satiates no more wasted fates of late. I Hate this resignation to denigrate excellence, and celebrate subservience; rewarding wards of yes men, who only agree with the latest top ten.

What a goddamned waste…

waste of time,

waste of wills,

waste of space,

waste of work,

waste of my goddamned breath-- to talk to death of things we all thought of but SHOCKINGLY never heard.

Not a word. No one will say it.

I guess that means I must.

I just can’t believe that we’re so inherently beaten, we can’t even speak out of turn.

I know I’ll burn if the wrong man hears me first, but honestly, I’d avidly accept your worst. This curse is mine to wield, and I will taste hell myself before I spurn anyone else.

I can’t stand to watch any more.

I can’t keep running from the truth,

and truthfully, I AM at war.

Though, my instrumental journey began a little over seven years ago, a gold-plated watch enclosing the wrist of his elderly hand as he demanded, and hissed that-- I follow along, on my six-stringed bow; although I had never tried to lift a pen to pen a word to verse, or worse, to curse myself with lense to let others find the thoughts and ideas; the horrors and the fears that tortured me and seared inside my mind. Too kind to whine; too weak to cry; too dead to care; too scared to die-- to dare defy the cares that I do not reply.

Now, finally, I find myself inspired and bate my desire to put down on paper the things I think, and dare the damnation pull back from the brink a heart broken, a word unheard as soon as it is spoken, a task amassed to take desire token, and a woken hearth full of ire

I wrote then a work mired in sorrow, on guitar I had borrowed from a friend who found music atrocious. With all my focus, I let loose a dirge with words yet unheard by my family; expressing concern, and considerable catastrophe. Then, I knew I could.

I sure do like to vote

I enjoy to vote

Your boy destroys the vote

I love to vote

I’m quite fond of the vote

I’m endeared to vote

and every year I vote

I’m a fan of voting and I feel like I’m a voting man; for every time I vote I can defend the laws that voting bans

If the world were voteless then I’d feel terribly hopeless in a country ruled by ruthless men who’d rain hell on the helpless din.

I remember angry fathers gather to amend an author’s constitution that their daughters and their sons might not tread water.

I remember on the field of battles fought and hundreds killed for this one wish that all men will have the rights written on that bill.

I remember when we were oppressed once and arrested for protesting and requesting our divesting and contesting slurs.

I have a dream, as others did, that all our dads’ and mothers’ kids might one day say we finally rid the stain of hatred from our midst.

I know at times it seems the globe is very vast, and much too cold, and that perhaps no one can hold much sway upon the way we live.

Listen, and you’ll hear Him speak, He whispers to you even now endowed with power, fearing none For on that word no sin can stand Stay instead, and ever seek Endeavors still will steel a vow avowed in scripture, we have won Long as we heed Father’s command

I know my Creator cares He bears to keep me every day I know that my life is dire to mire tomorrow not too dim Daily dodging devil’s dares I deign to drive the doubts away a way forward always acquires Ire, then no homonym.

See him glare in the moon’s pale light-- though surrounded by wolves, in the cool of the night. You invited him in, and in he will stay with his eyes drenched in sin at compline you swept away.

Hush, young harlot; now understand that the beast in the back yard has your command. There is wool in the rafters, forb in the hand, but you forsook the fields when he entered the land.

There’s a whole lot left to be tilled-- there are weeds in the yard, and the chard must be filled. Your stomach is distended, and ended your life for your will is amended by end didactic knife.

Speak, young widow; for now I see that the terrors of bearing have born tragedy. Though you work in the fields, much harder than we, you bring half of the chaff that I recall'd you dree.

Hidden tears stole when you're alone-- though you think no one noticed, I know ‘tis a bone. You displaced in the bedroom, a fortnight ago if we had only helped you you’d have healed and been whole.

Strive, survivor; please make my day for together, endeavoured, we drove him away. You have hurt for a while, for a while yet you may, lest I forget that smile I shan’t hinder your way.