for mamma

I see the strength in your eyes

blue like the sea

after a storm

when the rugged winds

threatened to destroy us;

calm like the rain

that brings hope to this dry,

broken land.

though you always tell me

you feel weak

what you don't know

is that you taught me

everything i know of

true strength and bravery.

i won't deny, 

i've seen your hands shake,

i was there

on the days your eyes

refused to stay dry

and your voice was a silent,

aching plea for the 

burden to be lifted off

your shoulders,

when you couldn't speak the 

words of exhaustion

for all the sorrows

your heart carried.

and those days,

they did change me.

maybe some innocence 

was lost for the grief

but it taught me that showing pain

is not the same as being weak.

and that is something,

that has sculpted me.

you think i don't know

how much this pain hurts you,

but i've seen you hurt for others enough

to know you feel this, too;

for you carry me with you.

your aching burden is not weakness,

though many see it that way,

they merely do not have the strength 

to love as deeply as you do.

when i was young, you'd hold me

when the night terrors 

came to frighten me,

you'd tell me stories of 

a savior 

who calmed the seas,

you spoke to me of his wings

and how his feathers covered me;

those were the first marks 

his love left on my heart.

i wish you knew that

those are the verses 

that i still carry, always.

in a world full of pain and sorrow

where it's impossible to venture out

beyond the safety of youth

without 

being wounded by this worlds

brokenness,

i'm so thankful you gave me

the truth to guide me.

though you couldn't protect me,

from everything,

you taught me of the love of 

our messiah,

who is the greatest healer.

and that, is the most valuable

thing.

i mean it when i say, 

you're the strongest woman 

i've ever known.

we break, and we break

some girls write songs

or poetry 

about boys who broke

their hearts

and left them with the 

fragmented pieces

as they

try desperately to 

fit them back together

into something

not even

 resembling 

what they 

once were

all the while 

 not accepting 

that loving means

we break

and

we break.

and though i could

write pages and pages

just describing the pain,

i won't because i choose

to forgive you 

even in the agony of

the bleeding wound

you made.

but,

if my tears were measured

in mason jars

there would be enough 

to fill up every room 

and every hallway

of this little house.

if it was summer 

you could sit 

in the back yard,

resting your feet 

over the edge

 of the pool,

emptying all 

the evidence of 

my pain

until you had 

enough salt water

to swim in.

if weeping could

be silent

then no one would

ever know

that i hardly sleep 

some nights.

the thoughts that

haunt me

in the dying twilight

they certainly aren't pretty

though i've learned not

to rely on 

the things that promise

they'll numb me

when my aching heart

pleads for 

comfort and for peace.

some girls 

they write bitter poetry,

and i'm trying my best

to write in honesty,

but i don't 

believe that 

bitterness would do 

anything but 

poison my heart.

all that would happen

is the fragile air

in this house

would become damp

again

moldy from the 

lack of light,

from shutting the 

world outside.

so every time i'm tempted

to deadbolt the 

front door,

and shut out 

all the pain for

the burden

i carry for you

i remember the 

dreadful thing a 

broken heart becomes

when you let 

anger build stiff walls

around the wounds

of your heart

that someone 

you've loved deeply

has made.

instead i've learned

to give this agony

and sorrow

to the greatest healer,

the one who knows

every bit of my pain.

what would we become?

if we thanked him 

not only for the blessings

but for the trials

he allows

for if we let him

he'll redeem 

all of our sin and 

brokenness.

if i am nothing 

without 

Yashua's love

than i cannot allow

unforgiveness 

in my heart;

not even in the 

smallest of ways.

above these sorrows

   take a breath 

no please

don't give up on me

what if my lungs 

stopped working?

every time i am consumed

by another memory.

it's that coffee shop

or that restaurant

that stupid road

that alleyway, 

all those places

that only mean

 something to

you and me. 

i walked by the 

new morning bakery

two weeks after you left me

i couldn't breathe.

that town haunts me.

and i'd like to think it's 

just your ghost

but even more than that

it's me.

the ghost, the shadow 

of the girl i once was.

the girl you said 

you loved 

with your whole heart,

you said she was 

your everything, 

in the cold night, right? 

i'm not that girl anymore.

i made myself say

 goodbye to her 

when i hugged you so 

tight it must have 

hurt you.

there are still traces of her,

this must be the longest 

goodbye in history.

she lingers, unwilling

to leave.

some days are harder 

than others, 

but it's slowly

 fading.

by slowly i mean 

barely.

it'll take some time for

this wound to heal.

i know myself well 

enough by now

to know this

will be a scar

i can't cover up.

it's straight across 

my chest, 

right over my heart.

you are forever a

part of me, 

even if just for

the traces

of the wound 

you left.

i've never been 

one to fake things,

i refuse to let the pain

be made into anything 

less than a scar,

a warrior mark.

because what are wounds

until they begin healing?

they are bleeding.

he speaks to me in the chaos

when i cry into the 

bitter night,

he tells me of the joy 

he has for me.

there's this beautiful time,

coming.

we'll be above these sorrows;

where he's made every 

weight of sin beautiful,

on the shores of his

grace for us.

all of our wings,

can you see they'll be

speckled with burgundy,

the tide will wash

them white as snow

as we finally learn 

the true definition 

of home.

burgundy

all i have are words,

some of them bleeding

this is not merely ink anymore

i'm writing from the wound

the place i'm still

 throbbing

aching.

i'm sorry if it's not

beautiful

but this 

pain and brokenness 

demand to be

shown; felt.

i cannot live this way

my pen is dripping,

my hands are covered 

in this burgundy, 

blood like ink.

what are words

when there's no hint of the 

wound healing?

they are honesty, bravery.

the words won't heal us

but they'll give 

the pain

 freedom

to be 

evident.

placed in our hands

words that bleed

when our pens are our hearts

placed in our hands

when we feel like 

caged birds

trapped inside our minds

battling the voices

of self doubt 

and we're dying to 

have just one 

opportunity 

to show the ones we love

that our intentions are pure

and though we feel weak

at the realization 

of this worlds 

cruelty 

and the reality

of life,

we are still the artists,

the musicians

the poets

the ones daring not 

to be indifferent

standing with shaking

hands 

facing the darkness

in others, 

in this world;

in us.

we are the ones 

who fought bravely

creating

beauty in the midst

of chaos

though we were young

and some may say we

are reckless to love

so fiercely. 

but who are we?

when our 

hearts are barely

even beating

now.

exhausted with the 

weight of 

forgiving those

who've hurt us,

and still believing

that there is a 

god out there 

who loves us enough

to stand with us 

in our trials

and in our fight 

against sin 

and in our pain,

in our confusion

in our desperate need

for honesty.

and we know that 

although our

hearts may bleed

and we are indeed proven

to be weak,

there is power

in the everlasting

promise 

that Jehovah's grace

is sufficient.

even for us. 

paper thin

if my blood were ink

than i'd only bleed

when words were knives

cutting into my

paper thin skin

in the sleepless 

dead of night,

when they

refuse to leave my mind.

and all i see is black

dripping from my hands

and the horror, 

of my heart still throbbing.

the words 

bleed together

until 

all i have left of this is

my still grasping heart 

as the agony 

grows worse

 i can't stop

 loving.

there is a sense 

of there being such a 

small distance between

the words 

and the one who holds

the pen

that i wonder if 

they aren't really

just the same.

where does the beauty stop 

and the pain begin?

if my heart is seeping

if i am covered in this ink, 

no this blood,

of these wounds

then how is it still

beating

aching 

begging 

grasping for just a hint 

of a sign 

that i'm not actually 

alone again.

spirit of truth

empty eyes

staring into the 

darkness

blind to the brokenness 

they come from.

dead souls 

unaware of the 

tugging

 the call 

to the light,

and freedom.

chains

around weak bones

and sunken eyes

and 

they, they are living

in such misery.

talking to the very voices

that lie inside their heads,

raising their children 

though they can't see they're 

already broken; dead. 

and they, 

they carry a heaviness 

with them; 

inside them.

they're always seeking 

the high, 

even though they know 

that once they come down,

the low is almost unbearable.

and they, 

have concluded

that this is who they are. 

and i see them.

through the eyes of our messiah,

i see them.

and i see their misery

i see every chain

and the weight that 

bondage has on their 

broken, wounded souls.

and something inside me

screams.

screams a desperate plea

for the lost people

in the cities 

that glorify

darkness

 and 

wickedness,

and somewhere

 deep inside,

a little girl weeps 

for the broken.

she remembers what the 

spirit of truth spoke 

to her so long ago.

and my heart is still aching 

with the burden for the ones 

who have not known the love 

of our savior 

of a god who died

for the ones given over 

to the devil and enslaved

in the chains that they do not 

even know.

and i cannot shut out 

the cry of my heart

for the ones 

that do not know the truth.

the messiahs heart breaks

a thousand times, 

for them.

and my heart will not

be silent 

not when death 

is still snatching 

away person after person 

who does not know;

that they were 

created for 

something more.