To Be Yours

It’s a desire to be in more than one place at a time
not a fear of missing out, but a fear of time
The quickness of it, and the thought of am I doing enough?
being enough, loving well enough?
Never enough and that’s the core of it all
My actions don’t satisfy my debts, my words
don’t earn your approval
My life could decrease in works and increase in mess
and you’d love me all the same

I would make it work the other way, if I were God
I don’t have thoughts on my own that are anything like yours
My thoughts are like dark roads covered in black ice
waiting for a chance to sneak in and crash up the movement of sanctification
If I were God, I’d say
the better you do, the better you are
and that would be more comfortable, knowing that my merit is earned
but I am not God, thank God

Instead, you give freely
and I come up short
you meet me

I am most at peace when given the opportunity to sit on the couch
with books and your word, and a hot cup of coffee
and I also feel anguish in those moments with the knowledge that I can’t
stay in this place for as long as I want
and among the peace there is also torment
the wrestling of my flesh, I just want to be more like you
I am not a savior though, I am simply saved

Simple in the sense that your blood is real and covers it all,
I long for your truth and the shaking off of my hindered perspective

My perspective that is hindered by the daily anxieties that I hate that I have
when I admit the things that truly worry me I am ashamed
Uneasiness rises within me at the sole thought of moving from one place to another
travel, food, sleep, furniture, finance, any ounce of change
I’m embarrassed by the concern that causes my chest to tighten,
I hold my breath when you’ve given me reason to breathe

When conviction runs rampant in my anxious heart,
I am left feeling defeated and undone
I crave to get every single idea and event inscribed on my internal calendar
and carried out into eternity but I fail
I fail to accomplish the simple things, and I have always been
compelled by the complex

This is an admittance of guilt for things that I should rightly feel guilty for,
but you told me that to set my mind on the flesh is death,
and to set my mind on the Spirit is life and peace
and I want to live

I want to live in utter admiration of your character,
letting this knowledge of you lead me away from darkness
the shadows of my heart and the way it sets my mind up for failure
Let compassion be an enabling emotion, leading me to
serve you out of freedom and genuine care for others
Let each day be counted as good because of your work
already finished
And in my lacking let your fullness be
illuminated

Slow my internal discourse, my outward speech
make a symphony out of my discomposure
and let me hear your voice above it all
saying

“Child, you are mine and that is enough.”

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busboys and poets

this past february I had my first poetry reading experience at Busboys and Poets at 14th and V in DC. these are the two pieces I read if you’re interested!

Tangled Hair

I want to feel some type of release from the heavy feeling.

Want to know some kind of accomplishment before I soon fall into this

temporary coma named sleep.

I’ve got bits and pieces of myself scattered across virtual pages,

I want to find myself complete in one place, in a simple location I want to be able to come

and recognize my identity at its prime.

Letting letters fill the space in my mind where nothing hides,

because behind each corner is emptiness now,

when you open each door there stands a dark silhouette,

nameless and empty listening to the songs they’ve played and I’ve heard.

Fragile; I wouldn’t demand a glass case for this wanderer in the corner of my mind,

because this silhouette is often thrown down and stepped upon, often bound up and wept on.

Because the tears that roll down your faces, and the tears that roll down mine, are no less rolling

down the outlined identity in my head.

I never intended to make sense, but now I’m confusing myself,

there are steps that one must take to feel a sense of triumph,

and today I have skipped every other stair.

I’ve become like the girl on the playground, the one with the tangled hair.

Her Old Paints

A hardened layer of paint coated the small tubes,

cracked and delicate like aged skin,

I thought of your face laid in the casket.

Leftover thinner glazed the container,

leaving a sticky residue like the sorrow,

which has coated my mouth time and time again.

Their caps didn’t give into my pleading,

Ignored my high hopes and beseeching.

Difficulties and complexities aside, we are all the same.

Behind these masks we hide, pretend to be selfless but found out by shame.