Block

There's a blockage.

The eloquence of my words
has fallen apart in the execution,
and when my heart yearns to speak,
nothing ever comes.

There's a blockage.

Each day filled to the brim,
yet nothing can be squeezed out
of this metaphorical creative stone.
I long for my voice.

There's a blockage.

Yes

"Do you love Me?"
I asked as you wiped your eyes.
You didn't understand my question
and you didn't see the point in an answer,
but you said, "Yes, I love you".
But when I pulled you through,
and picked you up,
you said your thanks and walked away.

Then I asked, "Do you love Me?"
after your cup had been filled,
and your joy had been renewed.
Your reply came in a rush,
"Yes, I love you".
But in your words I felt nothing,
and I realized that you weren't really talking to Me.
You were talking to yourself.

Finally I asked, "Do you love Me?"
as you handed me your heart,
surrendered your will,
and with an honest voice I heard,
"Yes Jesus, I love you".
As I cover you in my love,
I know that you now understand,
that nothing has ever separated us.

And nothing ever will.

Someone Else's Prayer (2)

Jesus, I invite you
to create Your chaos,
to reek Your havoc,
until all I can do is submit.
And from the very depths
of this weary and broken heart,
I ask you to push me into the fire,
knowing You mean to refine.
Because Jesus, until now
the only person I've been trusting is me,
the only person I've been believing is me,
and the only person I've been seeking
is me.
And in this blindness,
I can see nothing else properly
so show me Your mighty hand,
teach me the ways of Your will,
and help me to praise You
for the blessings that are often unseen.
Shake me of what I think I know,
and show me what to run after.
Oh Jesus, I invite you.
I invite you.

Tag

I sat in the third seat, 

facing the curtain-covered window, 

beside a dark haired girl 

who had the same shoes as me. 

You sat in the sixth seat. 

Some simple conversation, 

and some awkward words 

echoed in my mind 

in the weeks that followed. 

Months from then, they still do. 

So many hours laboriously spent 

asking Mr. God-of-the-universe

to slow down just a little bit, 

so I could decipher you. 

So I could decipher my heart.  

Then you created and destroyed me, 

exposed and protected me, 

until you couldn't understand anymore.

Your confusion has yet to change my certainty, 

but my heart can't keep waiting. 

You're still that man, 

sitting in that sixth seat, 

but I've gotten up, 

wiped my eyes and said my prayers, 

and walked away. 

Whether or not I'm worth chasing after is really up to you.                                

                                                                                                             

Season

Our wintering has begun. 


The leaves have yet to settle, 
yet the frost is in our bones. 
Calling for a hibernation 
we weren't yet prepare for. 
Is it that simple?
To sing a heart to sleep?
Or will this undefined amount of time
be torture to our souls?
Slow is this process, 
but our will is so quick. 
Will we survive this wintersleep, 
or will we never awake?
There's great healing to be had, 
so many emotions to reconcile, 
and so much, so much left to prove.
When we awake, 
who will we be?


Our wintering has begun.  

A Seemingly Perfect Day for Plath

It seems I'm having a hard time getting the inspiration to write. Words are pretty much gone. To keep myself appeased, I'll post the poetry of someone else. Sylvia Plath, someone who can say what I can't seem to right now. Enjoy. 

Denouement 


The telegram says you have gone away
And left our bankrupt circus on its own;
There is nothing more for me to say.


The maestro gives the singing birds their pay
And they buy tickets for the tropic zone;
The telegram says you have gone away.


The clever wolly dogs have had their day
They shoot the dice for one remaining bone;
There is nothing more for me to say.


The lion and the tigers turn to clay
And Jumbo sadly trumpets into stone;
The telegram says you have gone away.


The morbid cobra's wits have run astray;
He rents his poisons out by telegram;
There is nothing more for me to say.


The colored tents all topple in the bay;
The magic sawdust writes: address unknown.
The telegram says you have gone away;
There is nothing more for me to say.

                   --Sylvia Plath

Five

Dear Mr. Blue, 

I've tried writing you this 

haphazard, scatter-brained letter

for days now. 

The right words don't come, 

and though I strive to write to you 

with eloquence and grace, 

my only words are harsh and blunt. 

I long to gain that honesty 

but I can't tell what's truth anymore, 

and I want to think what I feel, 

but I don't know that I have a heart to feel with. 

All these things I wish to tell you, 

that you may or may not wish to hear,

are now lost. 

Even more painful 

than the confusing of my heart, 

is the taking of my words. 

Yours, 

Eleanor 

Someone Else's Prayer

. . . and Jesus,
how much will I forget
before I remember you?
How much longer will I run
before I chase you?
Because this apathy is losing its appeal,
and this complacency is wearing me thin,
and the things I hide in are exposing me.
I'm a fraud in this life
where I speak as if I know
but my heart doesn't know up from down.
I'm lying to you,
convincing you that everything is fine,
when you already know how far gone I am.
If you took me now,
you wouldn't recognize me, would you?
Jesus, this heart is sick of being sick
and you're the only healer.
This is a prayer for more than just redemption,
more than just revival,
more than just healing.
This is a prayer for everything you have.

Thanksgiving: Psalm 100

A psalm. For giving thanks.

 ¹ Shout for joy to the LORD, all the earth.

 ² Worship the LORD with gladness;
       come before him with joyful songs.
 ³ Know that the LORD is God.
       It is he who made us, and we are his ^[a] ;
       we are his people, the sheep of his pasture.
 ⁴ Enter his gates with thanksgiving
       and his courts with praise;
       give thanks to him and praise his name.
 ⁵ For the LORD is good and his love endures forever;

his faithfulness continues through all generations.

Four

Dear Mr. Blue,

This morning I woke up
and you were here,
almost as if you never left,
and you were the same in every way.

Your eyes were drawn back
just like they've always been,
and your words were weak,
like they always will be.

I wanted to hear your words
wanted to look into those eyes,
wanted some sort of understanding
that you have yet to offer me.

This morning I woke up
with month old tears clinging to my cheeks.
I'm mourning you, Mr. Blue.
I'm mourning you.

Yours,

Eleanor

RSVP

You look like
              someone just shot your puppy,
with eyes that are sad and droopy
              and your movements that seem so pained.

You're not angry yet
              but something tells me you will be.
Sooner or later, anger just becomes easy;
              easier than holding on, easier than letting go.

Tell me what it feels like
              to douse your heart in so much emotion,
that all you can do is walk around apathetic
              because to feel would be too much for you to handle.

You know,
             for someone as smart as you seem to be
you're really thick sometimes,
             because the only one you have to blame
is yourself.
          

Mailroom

Infront of the mailboxes
we prayed for a will not our own,
and a strength in our bones,
that we would be unable to deny.

I squeezed my eyes so tight
as if God would believe me more that way,
and I wanted to hear a sincerity
like mine in your voice.

The hours I spent before an Almighty God
led up to a two-minute blurb,
then we parted ways
and I hoped for the best.

Little did I know
this two-minute appeal,
would be among the only ones
you would ever offer.

If you didn't want to pray, then why did you even bother?