A Survivor’s Scream

Do you really understand?
You say you do,
but I can see in your eyes
that you cannot read
between the lines,
so if you really understood,
I wouldn’t have to spell it out

Besides, when I stood
before you as a youth
telling you my truth,
you rejected me

Where I’ve been,
what I’ve experienced –
the sights, sounds, smells,
pain, brokenness –
the colors of the institutions
isn’t something you understand

You think words like
fuck and shit are offensive
So when I enter a room
and instantly connect
with those you can’t
I see the condemnation in your eyes
the same looks
those like you
gave me when I was a youth –
daggers of self-righteous condemnation
emitting moral vomit,
puking your credentials, expertise,
and religious verses on us survivors
that we’ve heard so many times before,
but you’re not even strong enough
to listen to the truth we’ve lived
because that would interrupt
the delicate images in your mind
of how we’re supposed to be,
and cause you to miss our beauty –
the truth of our perfection
forged in fires of hell

We talk because we need to
not because we think you understand,
not because we think you’re listening
because you’re too busy
trying to protect yourself
from the realities
of a survivor’s scream –
a scream you cannot recognize
when you hear it,
and so you’re also blind
to
those
Sacred
moments
when
healing
is
happening

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Poets – Ha!

Is a poet a poet
after they write
their first poem?
Or does a poet become a poet
in the moment God strikes them
with a concept so illuminating
that is has to be written?
Or is it in the moments long before
when there’s no inspiration,
only desperation?

Is it when academia decides?
No. None of these decide!

A poet becomes a poet
each and every time they swim
where love abides
Walking through minds and hearts
with words 
drenched – dripping
in the Great Love beyond pronunciation
as we smile, laugh or cry
Being refreshed by the Oasis of love
a poet brings
from so many things

the poets will never describe

 

Looking Back Upon Forevers

Looking back
upon forever
He really thought
It would be forever
every time

Looking forward
upon forever
He still thinks
It will be forever
every time

Being here, right now
He’s enjoying
the part of forever
he’s in
In this time
this moment
this breath 

We’re all time travelers
caught in the forevers
when it hurt the most
and felt the best
Carrying our forevers
Together 

They Made Me This Way

Sharing like it was a dream
When I share it, I awaken
memories that others live with,
haunting them of what was done to me

Many excuses to justify what they knew
Many substances to numb what they didn’t
Many expiration dates way past due
It was a void, a dream, a past

The pillow I used as a child
is full 
of used up tears,
angry screams asking “Why?!”
And angry prayers asking “When?!”

Each memory I still feel
Each memory I still forget
Each memory unlocks more clues
Each memory is the same

I was more present than all of them
I was new
I was trusting
I was only a child

Walking in the morning as an adult,
wandering into the horizon
with no thoughts –
no destination

I was looking for me
For that little boy from many years ago
I wanted to let him know
that we’re going to be okay

If they didn’t make us this way
we may not have saw
there is another 
way – a different path
Extremes make visibility clearer

The pain wants to create clones
More generations of pain makers
More cycles of dream takers
That crossroad came and we walked

The path towards the abyss was tempting
It was where everyone else was facing
It was normal
It was home

We walked away from the zombies,
the substances, the destruction,
and walked back to our heart

Little boy from years ago,
know that we will be different
We will live with honor
We will live with truth

What made them that way?
Little boy, now a man,
together we still don’t understand

A way they made us,
not by walking it,
by not walking it,
by not talking about it,
the way was revealed

They are our precious teachers
for they show us how not to be
and taught us everything we’re not
They made us this way

A way, a path, a direction to take
leading us closer to our hearts –
how the Creator intended us to be

All those labeled as heroes or villains
when asked how they got there
have the same answer
in the form of a question –
How else would you have turned out if you were me?

Keep Painting and Stop Tainting

People are always painting pictures of other people and want you to take the picture they painted and hang it up in your house so you can have a bad opinion about another person, or change your mind about your positive experiences with another person. Those aren’t even paintings, they’re tainting. Just old, contrived collages of opinions that have nothing to do with how that person is now, or what God will grow that person into.
Here’s the deal, if you know someone long enough you will have both positive and negative experiences with them, and they with you. We all have our days. We all fall. We all make mistakes. We have all hurt someone and we have all been hurt. Bypass all that and just keep working on you.
Keep painting and stop tainting. Paint better and better pictures of yourself and let God hang those pictures in God’s house. 

 

Too Simple to be Heaven

Too Simple to be Heaven
As the sea reminds us of eternity
The grains of sand are equally certain
Certain in eternity, infinite, unknown
So fear set in and a roadblock
to remembrance was created

Created from the reminders of eternity
Created from what keeps us humble
Created to create a known
Created to not feel humility –
a gratitude with The Creator

The original dream of paradise
wasn’t good enough
No place to take pride,
hang a name, or have the credit
The enjoyment of bounty,
balance, and freedom
wasn’t enough

They devised a way to make
a need for more out of something endless
They took the reminders
of sharing, enough, and simplicity
They took them from the earth
mixed them together and began to build
They built, and built, and built,
and are still building
It’s never enough, enough is contentment –
that’s what they’re running from

Running from the memory of our Oneness
Developing more hurt
with more development
Attempting to override destruction
with more construction

Though some still long
for the place of the original dream,
thought, time, and space
Those who remember
never drank the mix
Longing for what they knew
it was
before it was this
Seeing what can be
for the future
of our children
They see all the children
can have enough

Those who remember
are called naive, unrealistic
They’re told
“Shut up, it’s not the way of the world!”
Heaven whispers,
“It used to be and can be again.”
Heaven’s whisper
is drowned out with sounds of progress 

Coursing through
the veins of destruction
a flow of mixture
that’s always given
enough money to eat
It’s always eating
and given the priority –
it’s why money was made
It has become a false god
by those denouncing false gods

Before they used it
to cover the earth
Before they used it
to incarcerate our children
They drank it
deep within their hearts
Devouring cement
to devour a memory
that’s too simple to be Heaven

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Don’t Fight the Wind

My dad would say, “Don’t fight the wind, son,” whenever he saw war brewing in my eyes

Wars fought long ago
that woke me up
crying, punching, kicking,
screaming,
reaching for a horizon
Walking in a daze
to somewhere
that was nowhere
A place I couldn’t reach
because I was trying,
desperately trying to find
the twelve year old me
to let him know
we’re going to make it
beyond that moment
and something miraculous
will manifest from it all

Time won’t tell us
anything more
than we tell time
to disclose
Yet, when that moment
arrives, it arises and raises
a sun that beams
upon all survivors
melting the tears
to rainbows that arch
from our heads
back to our hearts
Under which we find
the solace of the miracle
that the wounded child
within us has longed for

It is there, here, now
in a holy instant
we no longer
fight the wind,
but allow it to carry
the unnecessary away
and breathe us
back to life
with
Its
songs
of
healing