A thought....

Asking a Christian writer to only write about Christ is like asking a Christian artist to only paint portraits of the cross. I write about real life. Since God is the giver of life, I write about him.

Empathy

http://r2624w.deviantart.com/art/i-m-ready-217586791

You taught me empathy, a lesson
that keeps me up at night; I weep in solidarity, whispering
prayers for your safety, from others, from yourself.

You showed me the bruises on your body that mirrored
the ones in your soul. I could only stare dumbly
hoping that my friendship would be numbing to the sting
of childhood memories and present day atrocities. I tasted
blood in my mouth from the devouring of words my mother
told me to never speak. I wish I had shouted them for your
honor, screeched them against your enemies, our enemies.

This hatred of injustice is my sanity. I paint
the white walls of this room with strategies of revenge.
I hear the words you aren’t saying and I pocket
them to sustain me on this journey of recovery,
this walk of salvation, I walk for you.

I write for you. You have closed your eyes to my words.
I sing for you. You cannot hear any music.
We held each other together but you
crumbled in my arms. I am left with pieces of misunderstanding,
misuse, misery. I rock them as if to comfort a baby.
But you are dry bones. I haven’t heard you laugh in over two
years. My lullaby is an amateur prophecy and unlike Ezekiel
I have a fountain of doubts. I have spoken my own words.
I have confirmed my failure.

You were my world and I could not save you, friend.
So I must save the rest.

Questions

If you saw me withdrawing, why did you just walk away?
If I am not to blame, why are things not different?
Why do I think about you every time I write?
How come "friends" hurt more than they help?
Where did the conversations go?
Why does everything seem fake?
Why can't I let you go?
Can you see me?

Why is it that every time I write I sound so depressed? Don't worry; I'll put my smile on before I see everyone tomorrow.

I'm really not so depressed. Writing just gives me the capability to be vulnerable in ways that others will not be willing. I'm an open book if you take the time to read. If.

And so...

Now I wonder if I really belong.
Take me to a place where I am reminded of who I am.

Editing Died

Am I moving backwards because I don't think
twice about my line breaks? Some say
stay put on the publishing, just follow
your dream, write your heart out, right
the wrong out. But honestly, I'm speechless,
penless, wondering where are my senses.
This feel like music but I have no rhythm
in my rhymes. After all, feelings don't really
matter so I gather all of this up and throw
it in a trunk with a lock. It will catch
dust because it already caught dreams. My
paper, a dream catcher, the one place I spill
my anger, where honesty and destiny meet.
I am not an artist. I am a robot controlled
by editors I will never meet because they label
my work as amateur. Maybe it is but I've already
lost too much of the child in me and sometimes I
just want to feel the breeze while I swing,
rather than the criticism. I want to cheat
on uno and checkers instead of the fake words
I write, I lie. So poetry says that this isn't
concrete and there's no imagery. I discount poetry
and say this paper is my dream catcher, catching
dust on your desk, the place I come to quit.