Mackinaw

for a moment,

sitting on that bench,

with the water washing up

on the shore,

the cool breeze blowing in

our face,

the bright sun shining

overhead,

we had come to a place never

thought possible,

a place where everything is as

it should be,

as it was meant to be;

we discussed many things

on that bench,

warm, bright, happy things,

deep, dark, painful things;

she has given me more

than I ever imagined possible,

more than I ever deserved.

.

.

in my father's house

there are darker places

than this,

places of the night,

that call out

in silent whispers

within the soul,

too deep for the

average mind,

too far for the

typical traveler;

defeated and silent,

they lie waiting for a

return of the light,

which has already

been won,

forever;

in my fathers house,

everything is perfect,

yet silent killers

quietly wait,

preying on the dead,

choking what little life remains,

from quaking nooks

and crying crannies

hidden deeply within;

desperation and dreams,

make for big business,

lost and unemotional,

rolling on, past the walls

and barriers of all that

makes us who we are;

she has become the light,

it fills her now,

and hopefully,

one day through her,

it will fill me

as well.

.

.

More

she has been by my side,

for more than half her life,

she has been my lover,

my best friend,

the part of me that has allowed

for survival,

in a world so dark

and cold;

she is my strength,

my foundation,

I need her

like the dawn

needs the sun,

like the night

needs the moon,

the light which guides

the way;

if I could,

I would give her

more;

words cannot say,

what her and I have,

nor can they replace

this life we have shared,

she builds me up,

when I am down,

she continues to believe

in us,

when I give her

no reason;

if I could,

I would give her

More.

.

.

Today and Tomorrow

I have heard and spoken words like forever

and always, enough to know that forever

and always do not exist in this world,

eventually everything changes,

no matter how badly we want to

believe otherwise,

no matter how many times we say

it will not,

and I have lived enough todays

and tomorrows,

to know that yesterday will fade,

no matter how hard we try to

hang on to it,

no matter how desperately we fight

to prevent it;

people come,

people go,

on journeys to here or there,

it is only on the in-between,

where we may meet,

with nothing on the in or out;

it is the way of things,

it is life,

there are no guarantees;

last night the voice was there,

calling out so very strong,

telling me that forever was almost gone,

along with always and yesterday,

that I needed to put another quarter

in the jukebox,

before I could hear another song;

I only smiled in return;

ready to accept whatever comes next,

the result of years of devoted training,

playing a game which was over,

before it ever had a chance to begin.

.

.

Looking in the Mirror

woke up last night,

felt like I‘d been asleep for days,

looked at the clock,

only a few minutes had

passed;

sometimes even the truth

is just too hard to bear,

we are what we are,

that’s just a natural fact,

as inescapable as the

morning sun;

sooner or later, this road

always leads back to here;

I've been to the end and back,

but it doesn't mean a thing,

because it always come down to this,

sometimes it makes me wonder,

what the point really is,

when it just goes round

and round;

I like things that are real,

Charles Bukowski and Johnny Lee Hooker,

things which are natural,

wolves and Native Americans,

I hate smooth talking poets,

and slick playing musicians,

things which pass themselves off

as the real deal,

when they are not,

perhaps this is the reason

I never learned to like myself.

.

.

Dealers

the time has come, for me to be moving on,

get ready for the next phase of my life,

learn to be at peace with all that I have,

make do with what is there,

not what I want to be there;

I read the things

no one reads,

I go to the places

no one goes,

I see the people

no one sees;

I can no longer let that

guide my life,

all I need is the small, still voice,

which has existed inside this lonely prison

from the beginning,

where everything is for sale;

even this;

in this world, everyone is a dealer,

in this world, deals are made and broken

every single minute, of every single day,

as everything not nailed down,

is sold and bought,

whether needed or not,

regardless of the cost.

.

.

Brother

for the first time,

I see your hurt,
for the first time,

I feel your pain,
for the first time,

I realize just how wrong

I have been;

when you called out,

I did not hear your voice,

when you needed my help,

I turned away,

and for this

I apologize;

I cannot crawl inside

your skin,

I cannot know what it is

you feel,

although we cannot be

brothers in race,

let us try to be brothers

in life;

you must tell me what

you see wrong,

I must tell you what

I see wrong,

and together we must listen,

together we both must change,

together we must go to

the mountaintop,

that we might see the vision,

that we might have the dream,

as glorious and wonderful,

as that of the king.

.

.

Scoffers

First of all, you must understand that in the last days scoffers will come, scoffing and following their own evil desires. They will say “Where is this ‘coming’ he promised? Ever since our fathers died, everything goes on as it has since the beginning of creation.” But they deliberately forget that long ago by God’s word the heavens existed and the earth was formed out of water and by water. By these waters also the world of that time was deluged and destroyed. By the same word the present heavens and earth are reserved for fire, being kept for the day of judgment and destruction of ungodly men. But do not forget this one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day. The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance. But the day of the Lord will come like a thief. The heavens will disappear with a roar; the elements will be destroyed by fire, and the earth and everything in it will be laid bare.   II Peter 3:3-10

All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away.   Isaiah 64:6

another comes and goes,

false prophets,

speaking of ancient mysteries

they know nothing about,

spreading messages of doom,

putting words in the mouth of God,

feeding pride and egos,

that have nothing to do

with the truth;

even now, the children of darkness

begin to celebrate,

scoffing and mocking,

forgetting that for us all, the last day

is only a heartbeat away;

when standing before a holy

and righteous God,

will it matter whether the

world has ended,

or because you have breathed

your last breath?

will all our goodness and kindness,

which are but filthy rags before the Lord,

save us from the fate we so

undeniably deserve?

.

.

eventually

I cannot go where you are, in

this land of impossible perfection,

this home of beautiful dreams and

never ending fantasies, where

tears do not fall;

a world for others,

not us;

in the morning I watch your face

for the last time,

we both know words

will never be enough;

everything ends,

everything temporary,

everything just an illusion,

always just a touch

beyond possibility,

always a bit more

than can be imagined;

this great sorrow,

this magnificent sadness,

this other reality;

eventually truth catches up

with us all.

.

.

Once Again

When he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, “Put out into deep water, and let down the nets for a catch.” Simon answered, “Master, we’ve worked hard all night and haven’t caught anything. But because you say so, I will let down the nets.” When they had done so, they caught such a large number of fish that their nets began to break. So they signaled their partners in the other boat to come and help them, and they came and filled both boats so full that they began to sink. When Simon Peter saw this, he fell at Jesus’ knees and said, “Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man!” For he and all his companions were astonished at the catch of fish they had taken,  and so were James and John, the sons of Zebedee, Simon’s partners. Then Jesus said to Simon, “Don’t be afraid; from now on you will fish for people.” So they pulled their boats up on shore, left everything and followed him.   Luke 5:4-11

back in the gutter,

covered with the filth and stench,

full of dark angry thoughts,

pointing fingers,

passing unfounded judgment;

once again;

wrapped up in the cares of this world,

thinking of short term solutions,

lost in the self absorbing pity,

searching for flesh driven answers,

drowning in vanity and pride;

once again;

go away from me Lord,

I am a sinful man!

instead, You reach out Your

mighty hand,

pulling me from the murky quagmire,

softly whispering in my ear,

“Don’t be afraid”;

once again;

O Lord,

I don’t know why You suffered

and died, for someone like me,

I only know that You did,

I don’t know how someone like You,

could love someone like me,

I only know that You do,

and I don’t know how,

someone as perfect as You,

could save someone like me,

from the fate I so undeniably deserve,

I only know that You will;

thank You my Holy Lord,

praise Your mighty name,

all glory to You,

forever and ever.

.

.

gypsy (gimme shelter)©

she lives within like a

faraway dream,

a wild and raging river

running dangerously out

of control,

a dark, passionate gypsy,

who can never be tamed,

flying like the wind,

disappearing with the evening

sun;

she is everything,

she is nothing,

she is here,

she is gone;

it’s just a shot away,

it’s just a shot away;©

you fight with every ounce

of strength you possess,

you run as fast and as far

as you possibly can,

you hold out for as long

as time allows,

you sell yourself to the

highest bidder,

pretending it doesn’t matter,

telling yourself it is

just another one,

that it will pass like all the rest,

but it is not enough,

you find yourself

wanting more,

she has you for the taking;

it’s just a kiss away,

it’s just a kiss away; ©

and you wonder what shelter

exists for this,

what refuge is left,

what cure;

it’s just a shot away,

it’s just a shot away. ©

© ‘gimme shelter’, ‘it’s just a shot away’ ‘it’s just a kiss away’ – Rolling Stones (Keith Richards/Mick Jagger)

.

.

American Dreams

like most American dreams,

it only lasts for a moment,

but like all American dreams,

it will be bought and sold,

followed by mass production and a

slick marketing campaign,

until it is neatly packaged,

sitting on the shelves of Walmart,

where it will become the next big thing;

for a little while;

Hemingway lived the dream,

now you can tour his house in Key West,

for seven-fifty per person,

complete with a Sloppy Joe’s

souvenir mug,

at Jack London square in Oakland,

the crowds gather to pay twice

the going rate,

to eat and drink where Jack did;

or so they say;

on the beaches of Daytona and Myrtle Beach,

doctors and lawyers ride their custom Harley Davidson's,

pretending to be outlaw, highway killers for a week,

in their black boots, shirts and bandannas

but their perfect haircuts, well trimmed beards,

and bulging money wads, give them away;

dreams in America are big business,

so if you ever find an original one,

grab it up quick,

while you can still afford it

.

.

Jungle Law

“How long before the pizza

gets here?” she asks,

“45 minutes to an hour” I reply,

“Damn! that’s a long time, I’m hungry!”

“What are we gonna do until then?”

“We could have sex” I say,

“What else are you gonna do in Cleveland

in the middle of winter?” I add,

“Ha ha, very funny” she replies;

so we watch TV instead;

I guess that’s the way it is

when you get older,

there was a time when it wasn't so,

but times have changed,

rules are being re-written,

everything is out the window,

take the news for example,

once we were the good guys,

talking about justice and fair play,

now it’s kill or be killed,

do it to them before they do it to us!

the ends justify the means,

anything goes in the name of

national welfare,

only the strong survive,

jungle law in a world of

dog eats dog;

I suppose desperate times

demand that;

there is a knock on the door,

it’s the pizza guy,

I return to the bed triumphantly,

bringing home a freshly killed,

pepperoni and sausage pizza,

survival in the brutal jungle;

feeling just like Tarzan,

“Me want woman” I say proudly;

“You’re so damn strange” she laughs,

“Feed me and you can have anything you like;”

smiling, I think to myself,

maybe things haven’t changed

that much

.

.

New Hope

walking around this place,

as the late afternoon dusk begins

to ascend,

I feel the words stirring within,

a sign in front of a coffee/snack bar announces;

‘exotic drinks inside’ and I quietly wonder

if this means they will strip for dollar bills;

I see tomato pies on bridge street

and fight the temptation to go

inside and ask for a polite junkie,

inside new gypsies, there is a warning sign informing patrons

they do not cater to practitioners of black magick;

only good witches live here;

my wife points out an american flag,

with an image of Morrison in the middle,

I go in to ask about the price,

but then decide not too, once I’m inside,

somehow I don’t think he’d approve of the

commercialism of it all,

but then who knows,

if he were alive today,

perhaps he’d be doing ads for

american express,

and singing light my fire in Vegas for a

cavalcade of golden oldies extravaganza;

old age and money

have a way of doing those things;

then the thought occurs to me,

don’t you think he knew that?

isn't that why in the end,

he chose death over selling out;

later, inside a little strip mall,

bodily functions call out (I gotta take a shit),

only to find out it will cost me a quarter, so

I pay the lady guarding the door,

then proceed to take a thirty minute dump,

I smile at the guard lady on the way out,

as she angrily glares back;

it was the best damn quarter

I ever spent.

.

.

crossing the line

changes are not easy,

they never are,

they require deep self-reflection,

honest evaluations,

things which I have never

been good at,

once I used to write for popularity,

thinking that it was a ticket out,

a way to escape from this prison

where I live,

but now I write for me,

now I write for survival,

trying to manage life mixed in

among the dead,

fantasy with the real;

there is a fine line,

between fantasy and reality,

between genius and insanity,

it is not always easy to tell

which side of the line,

something or someone is on,

boundaries are defined,

limits are set, and these become the world

in which we live,

every now and then,

someone comes along,

refusing to be confined

by a world of limits and boundaries,

going beyond the lines drawn,

if they succeed,

they are a genius,

if they fail,

then they are a fool;

her and I cross the line all the time,

we both know it,

neither of us speaks about it,

because if we did,

then we might have to admit,

there are changes that need to be made,

lines which need to be redrawn,

and that is not easy;

but then it never is.

.

.

Kathleen

the laughter rings in my ears,

the silence covers the night,

like a worn out lover,

inviting everything into its domain,

like flies caught in the spider’s web,

echoes of the past banging into the

walls of my mind;

who am I?

how did I get here?

I remember a road,

on a dark starless night,

I remember your laughter,

I remember your scream,

I recall everything,

which means nothing;

ah Kathleen,

your hair was like silk,

you smelled like springtime flowers,

we were young,

we were lovers,

we were soul mates,

traveling the road to Dublin,

then you were gone;

I searched for you in

the meadow,

but you were not there,

I screamed out your name,

but received no reply;

oh my Kathleen,

where have you gone?

time has no hold on our love,

our love was greater than time,

greater than life,

endless,

timeless,

even death cannot keep

me from you;

remember the moon?

we watched it rise,

you saw the fairies,

and called them out by name,

we danced till the new day sun

came out;

oh my Kathleen,

where have you gone?

.

.

Scars

things are never what they seem,

isn't that what you once said?

this life is just a mask,

which you can change but

never shed;

time brought us here now,

soon enough, time will take us away,

today the words come easy,

but tomorrow, there will be nothing

left to say;

if I said I love you,

would it make a difference

in the end?

that which you’re asking,

is more than I have to spend;

the scars are still fresh,

they run so very deep,

from trying to hold on to that,

which was never mine to keep.

.

..

this too shall pass

Gibbons is the greatest there ever was,

Morrison said it better than all the rest,

Bukowski was the king;

this too shall pass;

like a river it flows,

on and on,

from here to there,

over before it ever

had a chance

to begin,

in the morning

you were gone,

never to return,

your taste still fresh,

your touch

lingering

on the wind,

your smell like

lilacs on a warm

spring day;

the last breath is breathed,

memories slowly die,

laughter gives way to silence,

the final journey awaits,

the empty darkness looms

ahead;

Gibbons is the greatest there ever was,

Morrison said it better than all the rest,

Bukowski was the king;

this too shall pass.

.

.

So Shall I

it gets harder everyday,

sometimes it feels as though

my bones are on fire,

half the time I’m not sure

if it’s physical, mental

or spiritual;

or just a combination

of all three;

I know it’s the diabetes,

it’s getting serious now,

no more fooling around,

no more slight inconvenience,

it has become the monster

all the experts said it would,

a crazed killer without conscious,

a psychopathic beast,

who knows neither mercy

or compassion,

devouring everything

in its path;

sometimes I just want

to get a bottle of whiskey,

take a few pills,

put some Billy Gibbons guitar

on the headphones,

make the pain melt away,

drift off into the fog,

never come back,

sometimes I just want to

make it stop,

physically, mentally

and spiritually;

so easy,

so final;

but that would be the easy way,

the path of least resistance,

the broad gate,

the road that leads to destruction;

He is worth more than that;

in the evening darkness,

I search for His light,

in the morning silence,

I listen for His voice,

He is there by my side,

giving me strength

when there is none,

picking me up

when I am down,

He will not let me fail,

He will not let me give up,

He has defeated this world,

and through Him;

so shall I.

.

.

recipe for a poem

PRESS start button;

ADD 28% emotion AND STIR lightly;

MIX 30% attitude AND 40% imagination;

PRESS stop button;

Let mixture STAND for several days until hardened,

THEN allow hormones to take over;

THROW-IN a pinch of ambition (»2%);

PLACE entire thing in oven and bake for

at least two weeks;

ALLOW to cool for at least a month,

THEN APPLY icing of your choice.

.

.

W.B. Yeats

welcome old friend,

come in from the cold

and rest awhile,

I recognize your voice,

it is one I have heard

many times before,

the accent was a little different then,

from what it is now,

but still, it is the same;

we have talked often,

you and I,

during that soft

and painful transition,

as I tried to hold on

to the dark and dying night,

and you patiently waited

for the pale morning dawn,

tell me old friend,

have you found that precious

light of a new day,

for which you waited

and searched

for so long?

ah well;

nor could I

hang onto the darkness,

but what difference does it make?

it is in the trying

that matters most,

you and I,

were never born

to live in the black

or the white;

it is the cracks in between

where we belong.

.

.

O Eire

O Eire,

who could taste your sweetness,

and not cry out for more,

who could stand upon your cliff tops,

or walk the banks of the river Shannon,

and not feel your mystic magic;

your hills breathe with life,

so young and fresh,

but with a wisdom

so ancient and old;

O Eire,

even the mightiest invader

is overwhelmed,

by the power of your land,

as they succumb not to

your sword,

but to your spirit,

you take not their lives,

rather, you take their souls,

making them prisoners to that,

which they had come

to imprison;

O Eire

.

.

Dog Shit and Other Saturday Morning Rituals

in the morning, we awake to

dog shit on the kitchen floor,

Cody, our family dog, is getting old,

he can no longer control his bowels,

this is not the first time;

“That dog has got to go!!” cries my wife;

I suppose she’ll want to get rid of me too,

when I start shitting on the kitchen floor;

upstairs, my grandson watches

Saturday morning cartoons,

Hercules, or some other super hero, I think,

when it is over he and I will go to McDonalds

for out ritual hotcakes and sausage,

he usually eats all the sausage, and

about a quarter of the hotcakes,

I eat the rest,

I think that is my role in life now,

to finish eating what he cannot,

someday he will grow up and eat

everything on his plate;

I suppose I will starve to death then;

elsewhere, my 15 year old

comes bursting through the kitchen door,

fresh from spending the night

at her best friend’s house;

“Watch the dog shit!” I cry out,

“Ooooooh! Gross!” she replies,

then bounds up the stairs to her room,

where she will sleep most of the day,

after being up all night,

talking to boys on the phone;

she thinks I don’t know about

these things;

meanwhile, I get out the paper towels

and Lysol,

to clean up Cody’s shit,

who looks at me with deeply

apologetic eyes;

“It’s ok” I tell him,

“we’re all getting old.”

.

.

In The End

Jesus looked directly at them and asked, “Then what is the meaning of that which is written: ‘The stone the builders rejected has become the capstone’? Everyone who falls on that stone will be broken to pieces, but he on whom it falls will be crushed.”  Luke 20:17-18

“What good is it for a man to gain the whole world, yet forfeit his soul? Or what can a man give in exchange for his soul?”   Mark 8:36-37

Overhearing what they said, Jesus told him, “Don’t be afraid; just believe.”   Mark 5:36

when I was 18,

I was the real deal,

the high school, jock, superstar,

the golden boy

with the golden touch,

class president,

everything to everyone;

it was an image,

I spent most of my adolescent years

perfecting;

I could have married the hometown girl,

bought a house in my parents neighborhood,

spent the next 30 or 40 years making

a comfortable living,

gathering after work at the local bar

with all the other hometown boys,

living off old press clippings

and exaggerated sexual conquests,

collecting interest on Friday night touchdowns

and Saturday morning hangovers,

instead I did everything I could

to kill who and what I was;

I wandered,

I searched,

I smoked,

I drank,

I snorted,

I embarrassed,

I lied,

I deceived;

I failed;

I burned every bridge,

I slept with whores,

I broke man-made laws

and spiritual taboos,

I sinned against man,

I sinned against God;

I did everything possible

to commit personality suicide;

but in the end,

I was still here,

stuck in the same skin,

unable to escape,

unable to change,

unable to be anything

but what I was,

trapped by the truth

living inside;

in the end,

I became exactly

what I was destined to be,

and You were still there;

knocking,

watching,

waiting;

in the end,

You put Your arms around me,

quietly whispering:

“Don’t be afraid, just believe”;

forgiving the suffering,

forgiving the humiliation,

forgiving the beatings,

forgiving the pain,

forgiving the isolation,

forgiving the torture,

endured by You,

for the evil committed by me;

in the end,

You forgave the sins

of a world not worthy

to kiss the dust beneath

Your feet;

in the end,

You shined Your light before me,

and my eyes were blind no more;

in the end,

I will stand before the throne

of Your glory,

and the joy shall be

forever.

.

.

Blessed

When I look up and see the green mountain tops, I am home. When I cross the James River, and look down on its mighty flowing waters, I am home. When I feel the cool breeze blowing across the valley floor, I am home. And when I realize that this is only a taste of the home to come, merely a shadow of that which You have prepared for those who love You, I am left humbled beyond words or comprehension. Thank you Lord.

You have blessed me

beyond all that my mind

can comprehend,

You have led me through

traps and snares I could not see,

bringing me to perfect places

I never knew existed;

to You do I owe

all that I have to give;

Your mystery is unfathomable,

Your glory beyond mere words,

You stretch out Your hand

and all creation is silenced,

You speak and Your word

becomes reality,

the Holy King of the universe,

the Lord of all there is,

the Great I Am,

Ruler of Heaven and Earth,

my God,

my Everything;

let me praise You

forever.

.

.

for the best

perhaps it is for the best,

that I never knew you,

you never knew me;

I would like to think your

life has been better as a result;

I can only hope that

you are happy,

that your life has been full,

that you've grown up

to be a good man,

a good father;

this is the only gift

I can give to you;

we shall meet one day,

in another time,

another place,

I will know your face,

you will know mine;

I will be waiting.

.

.

Choke On It

I was working the graveyard, and sleep

just wasn't happening,

so I turned off the television,

started reading Bukowski,

it didn't take long to be reminded,

that this world, this life,

this moment, is much bigger

than who we think we are,

that it goes on, with or without us,

he’s taught me many such lessons,

but they never seem to sink in,

so every now and then,

I have to pick him back up,

for a good kick in the ass,

then climb down from whatever pedestal

I’m standing on at the time,

forget about what is politically and

grammatically correct,

and just say to hell with it all,

because none of it really matters,

and I couldn't change it,

even if it did;

whenever I talk to a self-proclaimed ‘poet’,

I always ask what they think of Bukowski,

ninety percent of them say they never heard of him,

which always tells me a lot,

they always look at me with disbelief,

when I tell them he is the most read poet

in the twentieth century,

with more published books than any other poet,

living or dead,

I don’t expect them to be passionate,

or even like his work,

but I would at least think

if they are going to call themselves ‘poets’,

they would at least have heard

of his name,

but then ninety percent of them

aren't really ‘poets’, (are they);

to them, poetry is about sweet sounding words,

which roll around in your mouth like marbles,

until you either have to spit them out,

or choke to death.

.

.

Full Moon On a Cold November Morning

full moon,

4 am,

bright, cold, November morning,

Nicholson and Hell’s Angels,

playing on the television,

writing words as they come,

words that will be long gone,

by the light of day;

I think of you,

holding you,

being with you,

making love to you;

one night,

one moment,

one chance,

gone forever;

loving you,

is like loving the wind,

unreachable,

untouchable,

here today;

gone tomorrow.

.

.

everyday

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” Matthew 6:25-27

“Whoever finds their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life for my sake will find it.” Matthew 10:39

That whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life. For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. John 3:15-16

And Jesus said unto them, I am the bread of life: he that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst. John 6:35

some hold on a little

longer,

some a little less,

but eventually,

the sun sets

on us all,

in the end we

become equal,

as cruel as this

might seem,

at least it is

unconditional and

without favor;

God is no respecter

of persons;

I think about all the

missed opportunities,

all the special individuals,

all the moments which

slipped through my fingers,

the chances to tell them

how very unique they were,

how much I loved them,

but the time came and went;

now they are gone;

everyday I wait for freedom,

everyday I hang on for tomorrow,

everyday I fight the battle,

everyday I lose the war;

life is not about happiness and joy,

not about self-discovery,

not about self-satisfaction, or

self-motivation, or any kind of self

at all;

life is about love

and forgiveness,

about doing unto others

as you would have them

do unto you,

about coming to the

realization that we all have

fallen short,

that none of us are going

to escape on our own,

life is about loving God

with all your mind and

heart;

everyday I wait for freedom,

everyday I hang on for tomorrow,

everyday I fight the battle,

everyday I lose the war.

.

.