Unravel

a soul can be a never-ending
line of knots and twisted things
formed into a noose,
to threaten the livelihood of one
man's being

a soul may never know
the wide open spaces
it was meant to roam,
falling into the depths
of fear,
before it can make its way home

a soul may never know
fully the vastness of its Creator,
as it fashions for itself
rules and regulations,
subjecting itself to
shallow externalizations

a soul is meant to seek its
Master, unhinged and unhindered
from the threats of the former
misgivings and
misconstructions,
lies and contradictions,
unexamined proclamations,
of truths without contemplation,
of the implication
of truth's real meaning.


a soul is meant to be meaningful,
and full of life,
a reflection of the One,
who breathes life
into being.

tension

changing perspectives, ever revolving, like shiny, glass doors in front of a department store, glimmering with promises of something new. stretched beyond the boundaries of former thought, the strain of tension hold taught to it's breaking point. eyes closed, breath held in, waiting for the sudden break in silence.

foggy brain.

yesterday's hair, irish cream and my paint-it-yourself mug and a poem:

foggy brain,
foggy brain,

makes everything like static.

caffeine is the only recommended cure.
also, the hope of summer, that draws nigh

with every exasperated sigh,
as i study
for my
last final
of the
year.

goodbye.

joy.

buried deeply
within the strongholds of His delight,
an ever present fixture,
my soul's stalagmite.
despair's trumpets call to woo the light,
inflaming faith's beacon,
even in the darkest of night.

a sigh of relief,
breathes life to cold bones,
filling their lungs to silence
their dark and dreary groans.
a prodigal stranger misplaced from his home,
once lost and misguided,
is no longer alone.

Twilight.

where does love go,
when it leaves for the moment?
leaving behind two bodies
aching with torment.

where does hope hide,
when love seems to disappear?
slowly becoming elusive,
to those who draw near.

where do dreams fly,
as expectations mold into misery?
like the sun fading into twilight--
love becomes a distant memory.

the Portrait.

"For I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more."
-Jeremiah 31:34-

a portrait of anything,
overflows with true nature of
whatever it is
that it parodies.

our self portraits betrays
our truly hideous subliminals:
for we are ugly,
ugly in our bitterness,
ugly in our insecurity,
ugly in our love for money,
ugly in our pursuit of instant gratification,
ugly in our self-love.
ugly in our hatred.

but vain are we,
in our ravenous hunt for acquiescense.
frivolously painting over the ugly parts,
to hide our insufferable essence.

inevitability presumes the erosion and decay
of these self-made portraits, for even indestructible
mountains are worn away by the winds and its seasons.

only that which we had worked so hard to conceal remain;
tenacious anchors of the fabricated assumptions
of who we thought we were.
and when only the hideous remains,
the pursuit of love and acceptance evolves
to despair,
for who will love us in our ugliness?

the presence of Absence.

currently playing: Merry Happy by Kate Nash


there is a sort of absence that feels relentlessly present.
maybe even persistent.

no amount of distance,
denial,
...or didacticism,
seems to make any difference--
there is no simple cure.

cliches cannot sweep
the oxymoron under
the subliminal rug.

[what to do, what to do.]
imagine a frantic,
manic,
search for something to
fix the undesired,

feeling(s).
[i.e scissors to cut the loose ends.]

perhaps the answer is
finding a sense of belonging,
in the uncertainty.

or maybe the answer could be found:
at the very bottom of a very large
flask of

sweet tea.

Weird things Happen: a poem

Today, I stood in line patiently,
waiting for my turn to pay,
when all of a sudden, a boy walked up to me
then quickly walked away.

I do not know him at all,
as a friend would know a friend,
I do not even know his name,
or if I would ever see him again.

But I was wrong, you see
the boy came back a second time,
it seemed as though, he wanted to speak--
maybe share a limerick or a rhyme.

Imagine my amusement (or confusion)
when he did not say a thing,
he quickly walked away again,
just as I heard the cash register "ding!"

So, off I went to the library,
to study for Apologetics,
all the while, I could not decide
if what transpired was funny or pathetic.

As I was heading to the basement,
inside the stairwell, I got a call,
so I stopped to talk to Bethany,
as I leaned against the wall.

Suddenly, the stairwell doors flew open,
and to my big surprise--
it was he! the boy, who did not speak!
followed by some ...other guys.

Ironically, Bethany had to go
and I quietly hung up the phone,
standing/feeling very awkward
--feeling strangely alone

I waited for the boys to walk by
i followed, three steps behind,
wondering if I was imagining this,
or if I was losing my mind.

Then at the foot of the stairs,
the boy stopped and opened the door,
Immediately, I felt pressured;
as if the steps were miles away from the floor

But the boy stood patiently by the door,
he held it open as he waited for me,
I could not imagine a more awkward moment,
This one is probably in the top three.

When I finally reached the bottom,
I thanked him for his noble act of chivalry,
then I quickly walked away from his sight,
wondering, "why do these things happen to me?"

End.

points.

I feel like this is going to be a few journal entries in one. Thus, I will divide the different points into sections, so that my train of thought(s) don't appear too dissipated.

Point A:
I just cut up my credit card.
yes. i took a pair of scissors and did away with the poor little sucker. I cut it up in four triangular pieces.
i don't need mo' debt. I go to Biola.
and i was throughly convicted today, after Dave Talley's sermon at church.
it needed to be done.

Point B:
it's currently 1:44am and I am not at all tired. I suppose I could do something productive...like homework. But I'm not really that responsible. If I were responsible i would be sleeping right now, since I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow at 8:30 in the morning. But the fact that I have a doctor's appointment kinda proves my ability to be responsible, anyway. Right? So that, in and of itself, cancels everything out.

Point C:
I win.

Point D:
Anyway, since I was up, I started looking through some of my old writings and I found a poem that I wrote on September 29 of the year Two thousand and five:

twiddle dee
twiddle thumb
how many ways
to make your mind numb
talk in riddles
talk in tongues
talk in feelings
or talk none
stoic faces
lifeless eyes
stare into
darkened skies
wayward thoughts
overthinking
overflowing
this wayward ship is sinking
lifejacket
lifeboat
same difference
they float
drown in the excess
hold thy tongue
don't confess
leave it where it is
leave it where you stand

I forget why I wrote it. But I find it fascinating. I am not trying to be conceited when I say that I think my mind is interesting. Maybe a better term for it is "quirky." Yes, I have a "quirky" way of thinking at times. Well, maybe, most of the time. I like to hide it, methinks. Or at least suppress as much of it as I can. Only those who really know me see the extent of my quirkyness. You know who you are.

I am actually very glad that my mind works the way it does. I value uniqueness because it adds the necessary spice to a culture that has the propensity to be bland in its pursuit of conformity. *That statement maybe over-generalizing, but I'm too lazy to back space and change it.)

Ergo, I have a great appreciation for people who think outside of the box. People who have a chameleon-like ability to adjust to new and different situations. People who are willing to take risks in their decisions with the intentions of giving themselves a leeway for personal growth.
Yes, they are my heroes.

Point E:
I am ridiculous. It is 2:05 am right now and I'm getting up in 4ish hours. Oy vey. This week is off to a great start...

Tea and poet-ry.

I just drank 1.24 liters of Arizona iced tea. HOW is that possible?
in my defense, I was really thirsty. and it was really good.

sometimes, i dabble in poetry. here's my latest attempt...or "distraction" titled ( and yes, title is subject to change):

Be Ware, the beating heart

Lighter than the gentle hum of a hummingbird's wing
Softly carried through the wind as baby's breath;
these careless hopes hang buoyant in the Eastern winds
searching vainly for a place to rest.

A fleeting pass by my bedroom window,
they beckon my imagination with gentle coaxing;
A winsome sight to a heart's mind, newly narrowed
but a foolish attempt, if not, damning.

But lest, the heart's master takes heed to guard
and build up its walls, worn paper thin;
The heart will shatter into pieces of deathly shards,
destroying its master from within.

Phlegm.

feeling pensive
may be quite expensive,
or tasking even, for
one's heart.

for the art of waiting,
is not merely
passive serenity,
but an active
participation
in patience.

and patience, in itself,
is founded on
dutifully seeking
wisdom and
peace...

striving to find the light,
the darkest of places.

kind of weird. kind of normal.

home.
i feel like i'm watching from a window. an outsider looking in.
people are friendly, they smile at me. they wave at me.
some even step outside to give me a hug.
but they don't linger. they go back inside.
maybe because it's cold.
i like the cold.
it's an excuse to bundle up.
to cuddle with my clothing.
i like feeling warm.
i blink to try to remember what normal is.
maybe this awkwardness is normal, now.
maybe things before weren't so normal, as i thought.
why does normalcy have to matter in the first place?
it's so subjective.
i miss people. i miss their smile.
i miss the "huggling"
(which is snuggling, hugging and cuddling all at once)
i like consolidating words to make up a better one.
a friend called me today to tell me he was an uncle.
congratulations! babies are the best gift.
Jesus was a baby. And he grew up and taught us how to survive in this
world. He taught us what really matters. He knew and understood
the pains of suffering, of persecution, of disbelief, of pride...
that was normal for him.
He knew it had to be.