Poetic Prose...

I woke up this morning in a fog, too early to grind the coffee that would set it all straight. stumbled through reality today as i watch people who cant seem to match it up. Pieces floating in a crowded room and the mummers of broken hearts almost audible. Sometimes it wells inside me , as i connect with it and it starts in the corners of my eyes. My stomach dipped in lemon draws up inside of me and rolls and knots. I am reduced, as I crowd in close with the tormented, voices in their heads so loud we sit plugging ears in silence. And then there are the isolated…in the corners of the room, folding arms and shutting themselves inside because out here its just so big. I watch as they fight to pull themselves out, scratching and clawing at the sides of their own minds. Looking for anything worth living, grasping at sifting sand as it pulls them down. I’ll stand in today as a conduit, pouring out grace, here in this room. I will seek to right the wrongs and try to make it work. I will go to those places, and crawl with you through the sand. I will fold my arms as we stare at the same landscape. I will walk with you through the darkness till we both find light. I will lean in close to hear the whispers, and remind you of what is real. You are safe, and taken care of…rest in this place. And when the day is over, I will clock out and pray that someone will stand in my place

Death

I can feel death leaning in close, it’s hot breath on my cheek. This heavy air, to choke the light. I can feel it on my skin, needles on the back of my neck, and the line between this place and the next is stretching thin as we stand huddled together for comfort. And I don’t know how this full room can leave me feeling so empty, I don’t know how the wake of it can be so numb. I am ready for the after, like standing close to the tracks as the train cars rush by one by one by one… Waiting to feel left behind, as time rushes past, we stand still, close as we can to that stretched line, knowing we can’t stay long. Just to rest a while as we remember, knowing we will be back here, to try to feel that sense of loss. We would all come running, hands above our heads, holding our grief. And we meet showing our tears, and as pain touches pain and we feel less alone. The line between this place and the next is stretching thin as we stand huddled together, close as we can to those old tracks.

The writing process

These bold shades are blurring once sharp lines. Can’t seem to hold this pen without smudging as I slide along the page. It’s messy filling in the blank space between blue and red lines with black, overlapping. I try to control these words by forming each just right. I concentrate on drawing out each and every thought. These symbols of love and pain, they are far from clear, subject to subjective, we humans read between the lines. So how can I expect to get even close, to say what I want to say, but in words that you can interpret, translating not only thoughts to solid form but then converting them to universal truth, not withstanding. To communicate right and expose what’s wrong all along the way I am judged. It IS a process, pulling down clouds, scrambling to spin these plates, it’s exhausting.

on Graditude

I saw gratitude today, poured out from broken vessels. I saw addicts standing up, changed lives. Thankful for the help up off the street. A lesson taught as I dig in my heels and resist the change they are so thankful for. I saw people admitting that they are weak and they need help, I clapped for them, as if I understood what it means to be that courageous. To stand before the perceived righteous and admit before every sentence that my name is blank and I am an addict. There is hope for the prideful yet in humility. I clapped not because approved of the speech, but out of admiration. I admire the weak in our society because they do not know and cannot afford to be complacent…because with addiction, complacency means death. I clapped out of my own gratitude for all that these group of addict have taught me. The 12 steps of alcoholics anonymous apply to everyone.

New Admit

I pray for you, I really do. As you struggle to stumble to your feet. Watching by as you learn to walk again without being high, as you learn that laughter doesn’t need to be chemically controlled, and even as your anger spills over like sucking the poison out of a rattle snake bite. As you learn to feel again after the thaw, for too long you’ve been numb to it all, frozen in between without purpose, so distracted from the day to day to even realize your missing so much. I’m here to listen when you want to pour out that poison, like letting go of the weight that has held you down so long, here to watch your freedom grow. As you once fought for mine, I’ll be here fighting for yours. Because I refuse to see you as you are now, down and out and less than less, I can see the potential in you, that bit that was formed in the image of Christ, your covered in his fingerprints as you were molded in his likeness. And I will be part of the process of bringing you to perfection, as you are part of the process to bring me to perfection, and Christ be glorified in everything we do, I will pray for you, I really will.

Homeless Vets

The honor of service, fighting for freedom, turned sour to this stigma of addiction.
with visions of purpose we sink to such weak links, to lumber like sloths to reach down
inside and pull out nothing but lonelness and self lothing, where has all our honor gone?
These images, like yesterday, still haunt our memories, to touch them is to bring ourelves
to the very pits of hell, and hell exist inside ourselves, we have tried for too long to drown
out the screams of the innocent to try and find some since of joy, our addiction, just one
more high to flood ourselves with something other than this empty darkness, and now we
find only depression in our “high”, for there can be no joy in hell. we reach out now with
nothing to offer, no excuses,
POWERLESS
we are who we are because of the choices weve made,
we reach out now to touch something tangible, some rock of our salvation,
with hope…
there can be a better tomorrow and that hell can be fought back with grace, suficient for us,
in a world of stigmas.