beauty of innocence

take me back to the 

places i knew so well

when i was young

but now my mind and heart 

have filled with such a grief

i almost forget to remember

the joy and beauty

i have known 

and the innocence

that childhood was.

sunburned faces,

freckles on fair cheeks

a little girl playing make believe

under her tree.

waking to 

the sound of heavy raindrops

on metal roofs.

storms in the middle of august

nights without electricity,

a room filled with 

loved ones,

familiar faces

and sillhouettes 

shown in the candle light.

walks on dusty desert roads

in the last traces of the 

dying crimson and gold

southern sunsets.

evening cricket sounds in the twilight 

sleeping under a blanket of village stars

as the silver moon rises.

the sound of laughter

her young voice

singing love songs to the savior

dead on that tree;

bleeding out His love

for our eternity.

blue eyes 

and rosy red, freckled skin

the contrast of 

dark hands and chocolate eyes

best friends

with two little girls

living amongst so much poverty.

learning young that genuine hearts

are worth so much more than

any wealth or money;

the heavy weight of 

compassion

is the true mark of 

a heart yearning

to be like Jesus.

hot dirt on her bare feet

white blood, native tongue

fearless one.

the simple life of a child

yet unaware of this 

world's sin and cruelty.

what would i say to you now?

stay innocent a little while longer,

for soon you'll learn

this world is not a painless place.

though there's beauty,

there is enough sorrow to drown in.

you'll learn, love that words

are often used as weapons, 

and your fighters heart will not

make it through without some

serious battle scars.

you'll have wounds that

make you weak for the pain,

but you'll learn to 

hear the healers voice 

through your surrender,

in giving Him the 

dead weight 

burden of all your grief and sin.

do not forget the beauty

 that innocence was,

the redeemer will restore 

all that was broken.

to have a voice

if they had a voice

what words would

they choose to say

to their mothers

whose bodies mourned the loss

of the life they'd carried,

though they refused to acknowledge

the evidence 

of their children 

lost because 

the lie society fed them:

that selfishness will somehow return

the favor 

that it will bring happiness

and 

a better life 

if they choose to do what's 

best for them

when truly what's best 

for a mother is to realize

what a gift 

she's been given

no matter her walk of life

or circumstance.

if their hearts 

begin to beat 

in perfect sync to the 

woman carrying them

at merely five weeks,

how can you say that it's not a baby

if her body feels it's absence 

long after 

it's life has been taken away?

I wonder, what kind of orphanage

there is in heaven,

for certainly,

Jesus holds all those

lost for this world's 

worst demonstration

 of where

the moral line is never drawn

by those no longer living 

with a fear of Him.

oh, my heart weeps

at the sight of our nation

awash in this horrific,

deep burgundy color of

 the blood

of the

 innocent lives

we've taken 

with no remorse.

do they feel any guilt? 

i think that they do.

their bodies know so perfectly

what their minds 

won't allow them 

to embrace.

the pain and the sorrow

is so much greater

a burden 

for the women

than even for these

innocent children,

for the young never fully knew

the deep sin of this world

in any way except for the 

very life that was stripped

from them;

they are indeed in a 

much better place.

my heart weeps 

a second time for the women,

the ones who do not even know

they are mothers.

their souls carry the weight 

of their children 

long after they've left them

though they'll never accept

that this is the sorrow 

in them.

do they know?

that the greatest healer

already knew the gravity 

of their sin when 

he begin to create the 

very precious life 

within them?

maybe this massecre is the blood

poured over our nation

that will begin the return of our savior,

Israels redeemer.

for certainly it's a public 

display of godlessness, 

a manifiestation 

of the evil they see as good,

all the while 

not realizing that to live for oneself,

is the quickest road to death.

a poem about poetry

if i used my words

less cryptically 

maybe i'd reveal 

too much.

this throbbing,

raw wound

wouldn't be glorified

at all as 

beauty

and everyone might 

see the horror

and the agony

in loving

deeply 

the ones who've 

caused your pain.

maybe if i made 

myself

less a mystery

then people might 

understand more;

like the ones 

closest to me.

but i've realized 

in trying to understand

myself

that i don't want to be 

known by the wounds

others have made

or in the way

i deal with 

this pain.

because these things,

i've learned,

are not what define me.

and that,

is how the healing 

begins

in realizing that our

wounds are not 

in the slightest our

identity.

so maybe using cryptic

words to 

reveal this pain

is my desperate need

for honesty.

i am covered 

in the blood of 

these wounds 

that were left on me.

this burden is 

still 

so heavy 

that i cannot bear

to carry it alone,

for the agony.

he has shown me,

that though 

there is sorrow

for the 

pain

this is not 

at all where 

i am to stay.

i have the hope 

that one day

i can touch these

wounds 

and they will be

merely marks;

translucent

 scars.

then i will

be able to tell 

my story

in freedom

and i can let 

him be glorified

for the grace 

and mercy 

the redeemer 

has shown me.

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.