Or

I bet that another episode or a couple more bites or one more click to refresh or just a few minutes
or perhaps another not-so-subtle plea for conversation will convince me that I do not feel hopelessly alone.

Makes the Heart

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
Loneliness makes the heart grow colder.

Energy, Energy

Introverts are supposed to get their energy from being by themselves, right?
Well then damn, shut down the power plants.

Here I am.

Dreams

I took the posters down last night.

The pang of nostalgia was replaced by the sting of lost and forgotten dreams.

Only I haven't forgotten.
The dreams are doing everything they can to burst into motion.
All I want is for them to surface, even if reality proves too strong for their existence.

So why do I fight?

Crept

The voice crept through the walls and fueled the spark of doubt that would later consume its host.

An Artist's Heart

Someone once told me that for an artist to capture the beauty of the world, they must first be exposed to the deepest of pains.

To transport one to another place, they have to first experience the deepest and darkest of its secrets.

An artist experiences levels of the world that others simply cannot imagine, much less describe.

For that reason, I find myself swept away by what others may pass with a grain of salt.
Those simple folk criticize the nightmares of my walk.

To them, I apologize.

I apologize because they cannot even begin to comprehend the contrast available to me.
For while the hellish prison holds stronger, the eventual freedom proves sweeter.

I live with a heightened sense of awareness to the seemingly trivial passings of life.
I live with the gift of experiencing pain in order to rejoice in the power of healing.

An artist bears more than they should carry, but they reap more than they knew was capable of being sown.

So thank you to those that hurt, that stole, or that passed by me. Whether you knew it or not, you gave me another color to paint with.

And I intend to use them all.

Disgust

It seems unfair that the sight of you

-which used to fill me with hope and excitement-

 now consumes my thoughts with disappointment and my heart with disgust.


If only you noticed.

Kneel and Pray

Why do I always do the talking?

Rather then let silence reign in order to make you think, I fill in the lines and cover up your wrongdoings. Instead of letting you stand on your own to feet, I make myself the bad guy.

You hurt me.

Yet I am the one apologizing.

I am afraid of what may come if I truly stand up for myself, so I kneel and pray that I'm not too tall.

Here I am.

I despise what you can do to me.

You leave me defeated, overwhelmed, and uninspired.
I end up feeling alone, worthless, and unwanted.

Silently, I vow to leave you behind.
I promise to take better care of myself.


Then I see you.


And suddenly you are back in.
I convince myself that things will be different.
You will be different.

Yet here I am.

To Clutch to the Past or to Move On?

I loved you.

Not romantically, mind you.
But I did love you.

But perhaps love is too strong a word.

Love is two sided.

It requires a sacrifice of self for another, and the reciprocation from that person.
It gives and takes as it must.
It actively finds ways to grow and manifest itself boldly.

I shouldn't have cared for you.
We should have cared for each other.

I shouldn't have tried so hard.
We should have been a team.

I shouldn't still be grasping at fragments of the past.
We should be laughing together.

Second chances are necessary.
But you've had about a hundred too many of them.

and you, I

You've been told one only wants something after they've been told they can't have it because we, as people, are selfish.

While a shade of that may hold truth, the reality is that being told I can't have you- and you,  I- gave clarity not to what I wanted, but what, as far as I am capable of understanding, will forever need.

Fate loves her games.

The Second After

The moment I feel most alone is the second after the laughter ceases.

The sharp inhale to steady one's breath.

The pause to compose oneself and their actions.

For in that moment, the satisfaction flees to make room for doubt.

Spectrum

I can finally look in you in the eye.

But now all I want is to spit in your face.

Affirmation

Don't tell me that I am needed.

I know.

Tell me I am wanted.

I forget too easily.

It's Me

It's not you.

It's me.

That's who I am taking care of.
That's who finally deserves to be happy.

Strangled

Being strangled by your rope for so long has led me to believe

- in my newly found freedom -

that numbing myself to avoid the potential of pain is

somehow more desirable than experiencing the thrill of chance.

Mute.

The scream in your chest mattered little to me when my ears were filled with the sound of my thoughts.

Holding on to Passing Time

Realizing that you are not the best thing for me was easy. My bones have known it for quite some time.

Giving my mind the time to accept it? Now that is another story.

The Battle for Truth

The voices in your head don't deserve the hold they have on you.

Not Anymore.

When You means I

To all the people that have ever doubted their value:

You are significant.

You probably don't believe me. That's fine. For now, it is enough for it just to be true.

You are loved.

You might not feel it. You might not always see it. That doesn't mean it isn't there.

You are beautiful.

I don't care what, why, or how You are who You are. Beauty surrounds You and cloaks everything You do.

You have purpose.

You won't always know what it is. In fact, You might not realize what it was until long after the fact.

You deserve happiness.

No matter the lies you have been told or that you tell yourself, it is true.

You have value even when you can't, don't want to, or refuse to see it.

Yes, I am talking You. Significant, loved, beautiful, purpose-filled, and soon-to-be-happy, You. 

For Once

For Once,

I am not going to pretend that this was my fault.
It wasn't in my head.
I didn't make this pain up.

It was you.

Sure, I helped.
Sure, I contributed.
Sure, some of it may have been in my head.

But the fact of the matter is that regardless of my disposition to dramatize the smallest of life's unpleasantries and my tendency to dwell on the worst,

You let me down.

I shouldn't have to pretend that you didn't.

So I won't.

Second Glance

The blood flowed as pure as the words from your lips.

Lopsided Hearts

Everyday you would take out that old blue pen with the chewed cap
and draw a lopsided heart on the back of my hand.

You would smile and crinkle your nose as our eyes met.

Now all that remains is the ink trapped in the bottom of my drain.

Snowflakes

So the snowflake spent the rest of time searching the storms for another just like her because being unique was suddenly synonymous with feeling alone.

Reassurance

I could see my breath as we made the trek up the hill. The promise of warmth quickened our pace. "I'm just afraid of what they think," I continued, "that's probably my biggest insecurity: that people just find me annoying."

"Well that's pretty stupid," he started, "The people that you want to be with wouldn't find you annoying. You have better taste than that. They'd just be glad to spend some time with you."

"Well, damn. You know, that will probably end up on my blog within the next week," I replied.

And so it did.

Until Next Time

There is a dark beauty to goodbyes.
In the easy departures, there is a scent of what-ifs and could-have-beens.
When separating threatens to defeat, it serves as a reminder that there was a connection of substance.
Beauty, after all, requires some element of pain.

The Climb

The redeeming aspect of never reaching the top of the mountain is never being force to see that the peak is not all that you expected it to be.

The Friend I have in You

The people that matter most are not necessarily the ones that are by your side,
But the people who are praying before you can shed a tear,
Encouraging you before you have time to feel down,
And loving you even when you don't deserve it.

Just Because

Just because you got distracted, does not mean that you are ADD.
Just because you are organized, does not mean that you are OCD.
Just because you feel upset, does not mean that you are depressed.

Just because you are ignorant to the significance behind your words, does not mean you are not responsible.

Walking the Talk

This is a bit different from what I have previously posted on this blog. It is a snippet taken from an essay I had to write for one of my classes. Like is already said, it is not like my other "published" work, but I felt moved to share it somehow. This is a blog of writing after all, who knows what form it will take next?

Christians today are forced to deal with the fear that accompanies witnessing to nonbelievers. While it can be intimidating to talk to strangers about one’s faith, it is terrifying to speak to friends and family about what one believes. This seems illogical; as a Christian, they should be overcome with the joy of God and delighted at the opportunity to share that joy with others. Yet in a world that pegs Christians as close minded Republicans with more concern for themselves than the hurting, many know not the first step to take in sharing their faith, especially without offending someone.

In coming to college, I left behind many friends from high school that do not know Christ. In this time away from them, I worry that the paths they find themselves heading down will lead them to pain and confusion, all the while distancing themselves even farther from God. Four people specifically come to mind. I feel, to some extent, that it was my fault that they do not have a relationship with God. While at a public high school there are limitless opportunities to reach out to the lost and hurting. These individuals hit me harder because they were not people I had to reach out to. They were by my side all the time. I claimed to believe in God. I even led a ministry on campus. Yet I never had a serious conversation with them about what they believed. While my faith was not a secret to them, I feel like it should have been a larger part of how I identified myself. I restrained God’s presence in my life to a compartment that could be released when convenient. This blighted my ability to truly care for these friends because true love comes from God. I regret not being a better example to them.  

At the summer camp I work at, we talk often about planting seeds. The fruition of people’s faith is not always for us to behold, even if we are the ones praying for them and doing our best to lead them to Christ. It is easy to twist evangelism to serve a purpose of self-gratification, even more so when it is your job. To keep each other’s hearts in the right place, we use this representation as a source of comfort and foundation for our efforts. Basically, it means that God has a timing that is different from ours; He has a way of working things out at exceptionally brilliant times. To extend the metaphor, we are sometimes planting seeds, fertilizing the ground, watering the soil, even scouting land for a seed to one day be planted. We do not always get to see the seed grow into fruit. It is incredibly difficult to pour into someone’s life and see no change. As challenging as it is, we are forced to give it up to God to take care of. His plan and His timing are beyond our level of understanding.

I am forced to wonder if these friends were seeds that I was watering or if I was standing by the field expecting something to happen while doing nothing to contribute to the culmination of their growth. On the subject of witnessing to peers, Christian teen culture often says that people will know that we are Christians by our actions. We have devised a safe little comfort net that says non-Christians will be so impressed by how we respond to the world that they will have no choice but to ask what is different about us. The idea is that the secret Christians can then share the gospel in a safe, controlled environment on their turf. The system as a whole is flawed due simply to the fact that none of us will ever be perfect. We will mess up. We will fail. People will see that, and write us off as no different than themselves. It relies solely on our ability to show the world a polished exterior. It has become, to a point, a huge issue of pride. The sentiment that our actions are important does hold truth. I have no claims against the importance of following the Bible’s instructions for outward living. Kindness, understanding, and humility should be poured out to everyone we meet and interact with. This can prove to be a challenge in and of itself. The issue I have is when the idea that our actions are important is replaced with the thought that our actions alone have the power to save lives.

Buying into the thought that our faith will be represented solely by our actions has incredible repercussions that are often unnoticed until serious harm has occurred. The most obvious is that the very people that we are hoping to nonchalantly witness to without offending never truly get ministered to. Because we as a collection are too afraid to step on someone’s toes, it is as if we are not even there. Christianity is bold. It is offensive. It hurts many. But the healing that it brings is quite literally the best news that exists. People do not deserve the good news. For that matter, neither do we as Christians. But we have it. Why do we stop ourselves from sharing it? This by no means equivocates that we can be crude in our actions and words. It is a responsibility of ours to respect others, particularly those that are different because it is harder. This, nevertheless, means that we should be spreading the life everywhere we go.

The longer we hide this life, the weaker it becomes. If our fear of these conversations blights the discussions from happening, then we lose a bit of the spark we had. Refusing to stand up for what we believe, for what it is true, deteriorates that very cause in our minds. Soon, apathy runs rampantly through our hearts because we have trained ourselves that way. Our fear governs our being.

In my life, I see the source of this fear coming from two specific places: insecurity in the certainty of what I believe, and anxiety regarding rejection. My doubt in the inevitability of God’s presence often impairs my ability to witness to others because I fear spreading a message I cannot fully stand behind. When I feel God’s presence in my life, it is easy to point to Him and encourage others. Often, however, I feel as though my actions are a result of what is expected rather than as an act of worship. This causes me to freeze. It would be hypocritical to inspire others to pursue something I half-heartedly agree with. Even more so, I dread the chance that in announcing my belief, others will box me into a definition of Christian that they already have. Christians are not as highly regarded as one might expect if everyone perfectly lived out the standards they held themselves to. This, however, is partially ludicrous. After all, our standard is the perfection manifested in Christ Jesus. None of us will ever obtain this level of servant hood, but that should never stop us from pursuing it.

My challenge is to actively live out what I claim to believe. I will deepen this task by speaking out what I claim to believe as well. No longer will I depend on action alone. Through prayer and authenticity, hearts can change. Apathy and fear can attack so viciously. I will surely fail, as I have countless times. I will have to depend on God to provide an untouchable joy.

The Battle of Three

There is the person I show.
There is the person I hide.
There is the person I am.

And finally, there is the person I am called to be.

I’m still figuring that last one out.

Aware

To be still is to be aware.
From this sense of awareness, clarity is achieved as meaning is contemplated.
In this heightened glimpse of focus, attachment is born and sentimentality is brewed.

You

I'm not in love.
I hardly even know you.
You aren't the first.
You'll hardly be the last.
These feelings, they die
These ideas, they pass.

Yet if you asked,
I can't say I wouldn't be yours.

the price of life

Looking forward,
Eyes afraid.
Hoping Silently
the price was paid.
Nodding gently
It is done.
Somehow feeling.
Nobody won.
Gently, slowly,
Leave behind.
All the goodness
All those kind.
Realizing finally
It is true.
It matters less
When it isn't you.

Pieces

In that moment, she knew than picking up the fallen pieces would only add to their number. She left them behind, knowing full well she'd never see them again.

He searched for years, finding every one, all the while losing his own.

He gave them to her with the highest of expectations, not realizing that she had moved on.
She found someone else.
The scraps he devoted his life to were broken and forgotten.

So there he was, clinging to her life, realizing that they were the only shreds he had left.

warm nights and drunk strangers

and the damned thing is, I wouldn't change a thing.

Poor Child

Do you not see the very hypocrite you publicize is simply more vulnerable than the one in your eyes?
He crawled through your ear, consumed your mind, and vocalized his thoughts through your tender lips.
His presence, however, has left.

Those thoughts, poor child, are yours to keep.

Worth

Simply because something does not bring you joy or satisfaction does not mean that it does not serve a purpose for others. Who am I to claim absolute knowledge of value?

The Great Arrival

It's funny how much more painful it is to return to a place you cherish when you know you will be leaving behind those you love.

Fading

The moment I knew I loved you was the night you confessed to me you loved another. Ever since I have 

been waiting for the right
making sure that I was
convincing myself that
looking at how you
trying to find the

been slowly loosing you, without ever truly having you.

No Less

This one is to all the little boys who wanted to play with dolls.
You aren't different.
You aren't weak.
It doesn't make you feminine.
It doesn't steal your masculinity.
It just makes you a little boy who wanted to play with dolls.

This one is to all the little girls who wanted to play with trucks.
You aren't lesser.
You aren't contradicting.
It doesn't make you masculine.
It doesn't steal your femininity.
It just makes you a little girl who wanted to play with trucks.

So to all those little boys and little girls, you have nothing to hide.
You are just a person. No more, no less.

And being a person, after all, isn't anything to be ashamed of.

Change

Fear of change should never blight one's willingness to share truth and express love. 
Change is natural. 
Change, bad or good, is essential.
After all, unshared feelings aren't really sincere until they are vulnerable. 

Dignity

A loss of dignity occurs when one chooses to beat themselves before giving others an opportunity to do so.

the lady in red

our recognition  of stereotypes perpetuates their very existence.

now go make me a sammich.

Curtain Call

An old poem written before my first High School Play, Arsenic and Old Lace. Though my style has changed and the structure is poor, the words still hold true today as I approach my last High School Musical, Legally Blonde. 

The shadows dance across the page as I write. The limited light falls from six circular globes; the room is deformed as one of the bulbs appears to have blown out. The occasional squeak or voice is muffled beyond the walls.

Nothing can separate the peace that is caused from sitting here. The floor is cracked and stained from old students and staff creating. Large black waves fall all around, their arms guarding me, protecting me, calming me. The smell of broken dreams mixes with the dust above. 

Nowhere else is beauty created from nothing. 

Nowhere else are individuals simultaneously inspired and convicted. 

One corner splashes the monotone walls with the nostalgia of the broken shoulders we stand on today. My voice is lost in the darkness, but remembered somewhere in the crevices above. 

Locked away are my paintbrushes. My tools that manifest the beauty within. The medium that spreads my joy to others and transfers my passion to empathy.

My memory may be forgotten, but my work impacts all those who have yet to come. The ground is stiff. Worn. Yet comfortable from familiarity.

The life we breath is under-appreciated. The foundation we have, we built for ourselves.

Here I create.

Here I exist.

Here I live on.

Denial

No, I'm not in love with you.

I'm not even in love with being in love with you.

I just wanted to feel something.

And you were around.

Promise

Love is more than a feeling.
For to a feeling you cannot commit.
Love is more of a promise
To a person, to not let them quit.

The Mind-Wanderers

They criticize the quiet.
The ones exploring space.
The bashful few that let their minds wander.

They claim they are lazy.
Or stupid.
Or they waste time.

They think one must be acting
Or saying.
Or doing.

The wanderers are crushed.
Transformed.
And fixed.

Their memories are forgotten.
Trampled.
Deformed.

Their thoughts were unappreciated.
Lonely.
But content.

Now they cease to exist.
Blank, dark.
And cold.

So here is to the quiet.
The ones exploring space.
The bashful few that let their minds wander.

Let their dreams forever be nurtured.
Let their minds forever fun free.

Above all, let them know that different is not the same as bad.

Blake's Blade

A foreign force began pounding my head. Louder, stronger, faster. I grew tense as my eyes were stunned by the blinding light of morning. I thwarted my Batman alarm clock from when I was eight and fell out of bed. After throwing on a pair of jeans and an old t-shirt, I headed to the bathroom. One look in the mirror revealed that not much had changed.  My hair was still untamable and tangley; my nose too pointed and my chin was still covered in a patchy excuse for a beard. Clumsy from growth spurts and lanky by design, I supposed it would have been foolish to expect an improvement overnight.

            A neat stack of pancakes accompanied by a side of sausage awaited me at the table. I found a note from Liza wishing me luck on my first day back. She apologized that she had to be to work so early on such a big, big day! I dumped the grub in the trashcan and cleaned the dishes. I still didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t really have an appetite anymore. I downed some coffee and slung my pack over my shoulder. “Guess I better get going,” I thought.

            As I walked the halls of good old Talma High, I found it hard to disappear. Everywhere I went, silence followed. I felt the slimy fingers of people’s stares scratch my back. Some underclassmen tried to smile at me. Some guy with weird glasses told me that he was “praying really hard for me” even though we had never met. Most people just gaped and dropped what they were doing. Their whispers crept into my ears like silent bombs, crashing and booming along the way. They didn’t like that I was back. They wanted me to leave. I was tainting their image. It was bad enough that I- uh, left. But now I was back. What nerve I had for actually thinking I deserved to return. How could I let Liza talk me into this being a good idea?

Teachers hid their shock with half-hearted smiles and weak handshakes. I knew what they were thinking. I knew they weren’t expecting me to ever go back to school, especially not this school. Their fragile words and feeble attempts to make conversation weren’t fooling anybody. I knew they felt uncomfortable around me. As if they didn’t have issues with me before- before I left. I got through my first few classes without any major issues even though Mr. Clarkson wouldn’t stop looking at me and Mrs. Mack gave way more homework than I remember. All of them still seemed kind of blank. They didn’t know how to react to me. At least nobody had the stones to call on me to answer any questions.

The bell sent the animals flocking toward the cafeteria. I stepped out for a quick smoke before following myself. After obtaining a sloppy scoop of mashed potatoes resembling a washcloth and a hunk of green meat, neither of which I planned to eat, I scanned the room. Finally, one place where I wasn’t the sore thumb. I was lost in the chaos. The jocks were at their table, the druggies in theirs. Braniacs, musical-geeks, nerds:  they all had their spot. I turned to return to my old corner by myself, but even that was taken up by the apparently expanding Asian population.

Out of options, I started for the bathroom to eat in a stall when that dude with the funny glasses stopped me. “Hey! Blake!” he grinned.

“Uh, hi?” I responded.

“How’s it going?”

“Um. Fine?”

A silence.

“Yourself?”

“Oh! I am great!”

“Wonderful,” I mumbled.

“How are your classes going?”

“Fine.”

“That’s good.”

I waited for him to ask me another pointless question or move out of my way. He did neither. “Is there something you wanted?” I asked.

“Not specifically. Just wanted to see how your day was.”

Another one of those fantastic silences.

“Well, it was fine.”

            “Glad to hear it! So who are you sitting with?”

            “Yes,” I replied dryly.

He caught the drift.  As I began to walk away, he called out, “Blake, if you ever, you know, need a place to eat, we have an open spot.”

“Like Hell,” I spat as I dumped my lunch and went out for another smoke.

I pushed through the rest of my day, ignoring the gawks and murmuring voices of noisy classmates. I found twenty bucks on the kitchen counter with another note. Liza was working late again. She flooded me with apologies that I would have to wait to tell her about the big, big day! At least I could grab some pineapple pizza and play my music loud enough to blast out my eardrums! I headed up to my room and flopped on my bed.

I couldn’t get the snot-nosed faces from school out of my mind. Their fake smiles and empty words clouded my body. Nobody wanted me back there. It was idiotic to expect anything to return to normal, even if normality sucked in the first place. I sacrificed what chance I had at acceptance when l left.

The cool touch of the familiar metal teased my fingertips.  I found myself grasping it without remembering digging through my drawer to find it. A stain from countless indulgences looked up at me. Questioning me. Patronizing me.  Old temptations clouded my perception. The floodgates were open. My demons used to fight me. I used to care; I fought them. I ran. I hid. I cowered. Alone.

But now they called out to me sweetly, like an old friend. Begging I return. They missed me. They needed me. The wanted me.  Finally somebody wanted me. They lifted their delicate fingers, beckoning me to return home.  Reality desperately clang to me as I pushed her away.  I knew she wouldn’t have the strength to fight me much longer. Not with the aid of my forgotten friends. Motion began to slur until things were still. Sound faded from a desperate whisper to a hopeless murmur. My senses blurred until I was all that remained. I was invited once more to forget. To release. To feel. I griped my blade more tightly. My confidence was growing. My assurance was swelling. I deserve. I deserve. I deserve.

Ding-dong.

I’m torn from ecstasy by the doorbell. Disgruntled, I stash the blade and make my way downstairs. I find none other than my lunch buddy standing at my door. I stare, not sure what to think, waiting for him to explain why he showed up at my door in the middle of December.

He finally piped up with a measly, “Hey.”

Hey? He, a stranger, showed up at my house, unannounced, in the snow. And all he had to say was hey?

“Uh, Hi?” I replied.

“Hey.”

The conversation was riveting.

“Can I help you?”

“No… Wait! Yes! I mean, umm. Wait. Let me start over.”

Riveting.

“Are you busy tonight?” he asked.

My mind shot back to the blade in my room, waiting for me, calling to me. “Sorta,” I told him.

“Oh,” he sounded disappointed, “ok.”

I started to close the door, but something stopped me, “Why?”

“I just wanted to invite you to grab some coffee or something. No big. Have a good night!” He began walking away, so I closed the door and began up the stars. I turned to see him through the window. This guy, this random guy, wanted to grab coffee or something? I didn’t even know his name. Before I processed what I was doing, I was running after him.

“I… I thought you were busy?” he asked.

“Eh,” I smiled, “it can wait.” Our footprints in the snow left a trail of where we had been. The funny part was, no matter where we made them, nobody but us could decide where the next ones would be. “Oh!” I choked, “I wanted to ask you something!”

“Shoot!”

“This might sound really ignorant of me, but I never caught your name.”

He laughed, “I guess I never threw it! My name’s Micheal.”

We walked to The Java-Nut, where we had the worst coffee I have ever tasted. Somehow, I didn’t mind. 

The Colors of Camp

The wood is worn

From laughter and years.

The paint is faded

From conversations and tears.

The squeals and shouts

Seep out from the door

Accompanied by

a little one’s snore.

A tornado of color

Overtook the room.

Bunks, bags, and beds.

Carelessly strewn.

The bathroom’s a graveyard

From battles lost.

The victors fought hard

For they knew of the cost.

The mud on their faces

Was caked on with sweat.

Their eyes began drooping

While slumber, she threat.