Next

“Lord, if it’s you,” Peter replied, “tell me to come to you on the water.” “Come,” he said. Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!” Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,” he said, “why did you doubt?” And when they climbed into the boat, the wind died down. Then those who were in the boat worshiped him, saying, “Truly you are the Son of God.”   Matthew 14:28-33

one more lesson,

one more obstacle,

one more weakness,

one more time, I begin

to sink below the surface;

once again, You grasp

my hand,

once again, You pull

me from the depths,

once again, You teach me

to overcome,

once again, Your power sets

me free;

the world continues on,

wars and rumors of wars,

death and destruction,

joy and laughter,

greed and self-satisfaction,

vanity and pride;

none of that matters now,

the flesh slowly dies,

only a fading mist,

a disappearing shadow,

I am finished with it all,

there is nothing more

I need,

there is nothing more

I want,

all that matters now is

what comes next,

all that matters now,

is You.

.

.

Sometimes Called Home

respectability comes crashing in,

like an amusement park roller coaster ride,

reaching unfathomable peaks,

on the way to cold black depths,

hanging on for her sake alone,

because she deserves more,

but this is all you can give;

so you do;

praying the whole time

that she’ll survive,

despite the odds,

leaving this place behind (forever),

taking that which you never could;

or would;

soaring with golden eagles,

high above this world,

where insects crawl,

proud and strong,

on winding roads less traveled;

free from this prison,

sometimes called home.

.

.

Muse

I had a muse once;

she was my inspiration,

she was my balance,
she was my addiction;

not many can understand

a relationship such as this,
it is far more complicated
than it appears,
much deeper than meets
the eye;

everyday I would delve

into bold, new worlds,
forbidden territories,
outlawed loves,
lost and forgotten lives,
each more fantastic than
the other,
each more twisted
than the next,
strangers meeting on
foreign shores,
whispered rumors,
destinations very few
can fathom;

laying them at her feet,

an offering of darkness
upon an altar of suffering
and sacrifice;

living for her approval,

bathing in her radiance,
hanging on her every breath;

she owned every fiber

of my existence;

she was kind,

she could have drained me
of every drop,
leaving nothing behind,
she could have destroyed me;
she released me instead;

sometimes I miss my muse,

the words came much easier
with her than without,
but I became stronger
as a result;

so I think perhaps

that it is better this way.

.

.

No More

who sees these shadows,

who knows this hunger,

every word, every thought,

every feeling;

inadequate;

the day is gone, the night moves on,

the bags all packed, waiting for the

final call, like a cancer it grows,

this monster, this disease, this curse,

toxic, poisonous, deadly, infecting

everyone it touches, destroying

everything in its path,

if I could, I would end it today,

but once you go through that door,

there’s no going back, no return,

no tomorrow;

no more;

I’ve given in to food, to television,

to non-movement, to weight,

to health, to age, to time,

there is much I haven’t seen,

even more I will never know,

I understand this, I accept this,

there is nothing I can do about this,

it doesn’t matter, I continue to rise,

I continue to breathe, I continue to carry on;

I have no choice;

every day I rise, every day I wait,

every day I wonder if today is the day,

but it never is, I am tired,

tired of the fight, tired of the struggle,

tired of temporary victories, tired of losing,

tired of the darkness;

I twist, I turn, I run, I hide;

I love her still.

.

.

Out Here

out here,

it never ends;

this longing,

this desire,

this hunger;

this all consuming

consumption;

it defines who you are,

it determines

what you become,

it takes you places

you never knew existed;

most never come this far,

the journey too long,

one more trip

never made;

out here the ribbons

fly out the door,

the parades pass on by,

time remains right

where you left it,

safe and secure,

in shelters of unmarked

horizons;

out here no one

knows your name,

leaving you cold

and numb,

alone and afraid,

empty and drained,

friends come and go,

night time shadows

fade away into nooks

and crannies of far-away

dreams;

out here only the dust

remains.

.

.

Just a Dream

people see what

they want to see,

they come,

they go,

they give,

they take,

they live,

they die;

nothing more,

nothing less;

the hunger never rests,

never dies,

it gnaws away,

careening down the tracks,

like a run-away train,

out of control,

waiting for the crash;

‘it’s not real,

it never is;’

it never ends,

this game of fools,

it shifts,

it moans,

it rises,

it falls,

it never ends;

‘it will pass,

like all the rest;’

lying here,

she deserves better,

but there is nothing

more to give,

nothing left to take,

this is all there is,

once there were words,

but now, even they

fade into the darkness

of the approaching storm;

‘just a dream,

just a dream,

it will pass,

like all the rest.’

.

.

Manic

it is never quite enough,

there is always something

I could have done better,

always something

I should have known sooner,

it is never enough,

it leaves me feeling so inadequate,

like I’m hanging on

by the tips of my fingers,

afraid to let go,

because then everyone will see

what I really am;

I’m sure there’s a name

for people like me,

some doctor with his nose stuck

in the latest psycho books,

could slap a label on it so quick

it would make your head spin;

for a small fee of course;

but would it really matter?

then it would just have a name,

then it might get personal,

and before you know it,

I’d be walking around talking to it,

like it was my oldest and dearest friend,

and people would ask,

is he mad?

while those who know me would reply,

“nope, he’s just talking to his dear old friend

Manic.”

.

.