"With the awareness comes periods of days, sometimes weeks, when I have to avoid looking into a mirror. My self hate is so deep, so palpable, I fear I'll lunge at my own image, shatter the glass and cut myself with shards of broken reflection."

     ~Jax Teller (Sons Of Anarchy)


The mirror reflects images
Of past things I'd like to forget
Memories project ghosts that faded
Long ago after I built up my regrets
And that reflection shines through
All the different scenarios
Of this life that I've lived through
And heartbreaks, everywhere I go

Heartbreak, heathens, hounds and Hell
What wonderful whispers the mirror has to tell
I've heard them before - **** - they came from my core
Love was the loathing that turned into lore
****** the person in the mirror
The truth could not be clearer:
A monster spawned once the medicine cabinet filled with liquor
You hate me? Join the ******* club
I'm the ******* dartboard at the local pub

Then comes the crashing, the breaking, the cuts and bruises
Spectrums of pieces and shatters of truths
And yet it all just reflects right back to mistakes from our youth
The mirror, just an ugly reminder of shame with all the proof
But what can we do? How can we forget?
The images of the past can't change how they reflect
From another angle we could possibly alter the effect
But no altercations can take away the pain and regret

I take a walk to distance me from myself,
but there is no harbor for demons hiding from Hell
I tried my damnedest to become better,
but despite how earnest, I only grew bitter
Now, being sober just gives me the jitters
I can't be alone with the Devil inside
I can't change things when the problem is I
People see me and they are befuddled
I see only a shell when I pass by these puddles

Empty, that's all that's left of me
Nothing, there's nothing left to see
The mirror is blank, a black hole
Drained into space, the remnants of my soul
Blank reflections shattered against my heart
Feeling of hate and self doubt ripping me apart
The eyes staring back at me have no emotions
Wide gazes and high tides like endless oceans
This nothingness is completely consuming me
My life, love and happiness have been swept out to sea

I’ve learned that feeling start to change.

You don’t want me, so my love is estranged.

But I really can’t complain:

I think truly, I wanted the same.

You see, our love could not remain.

I once adored you, but that changed.

You’re not the one for me to find.

That realization brings peace of mind.

I really wish you all the best.

But don’t come running back to me.

You are not the one I need.

You’re missing something,

So incomplete.

And I don’t hold your hidden piece.

Sometimes all we have to do
all there is to do
is to hold on to the ledge,
tightly, until straining veins
at the back of our hands
grow like roots seeking water,
until sore fingers silently pray
under the weight of our predicament
as we wait for the storm

and when it starts, some days
it can be as bearable
as accidentally slamming the door
on a finger, heart pounding wildly,
calling out in suffocation,
deep within the confines of soft tissues

other days, it seems to take a deep breath
pulling back heavily on the whip
before striking with barbed malice,
trying to pry open
the hinges holding our inner beings.

At one point, the winds of time
will slowly blow the dark clouds south
bringing oxygen, nutrients and hope
and we can let go of that ledge
turn around with a fortified soul
and step into the sunshine.

Outside of poetry
I would still be living a life
lightened and carefree
merrily chatting with wife.

I would let a poem rise in my head
throw to wind and see it dead
return to sky all breath of pain
watch them fall as joyous rain.

I would darken the screen let it sleep
burn the poems with none to keep
retire to the nook not been for long
brush up the web on a dusty song.

To be away from poetry I would strive
sail on the river go on long drive
snuggle tighter to a fathomless space
outside of poetry discover happiness.

The Canvas
(c)08-25-2012

A canvas sets on the edge of greatness and beauty, blank, waiting for the touch of the master’s hand. She takes charge of what is to be. Gentle strokes, broad strokes, strokes that caress the canvas… leaving the marks of imagination, transforming nothing into beauty. The image emerges revealing the thoughts and desires and power of the canvas. It is breath-taking to the beholder. She understands the difference between OK and great. Nothing will do but great. It must emulate the original. It must be the original! So it is with our canvas of life.

We start life as a blank canvas. Brush strokes are made by those around us as we begin to grow. Made by mom, dad, friend and strangers alike. All try to add their image to our canvas. An image of who they think we are. As we grow into the artist we strive to be, we accept or reject the strokes of others and create a portrait we strive to become.

Some strokes by others can leave an off color, covering who we really strive to be. A brush stroke that is not us can be covered by our touch, our color, our imagination of who we are, adding integrity to the texture and hue. Revealing an inner beauty as the artist of our life takes control, guiding our hand, adding the touches that transform the canvas from OK to great.

The Artist chooses the colors, the brushes from which she wants to define her life. The decisions are hers to make as she selects the shades of color, or even black and white, that will define her life. She paints a portrait of peace and joy, of self-less love for family and friends.. All else is unimportant. The things of past are covered. Today and tomorrow are forming a painting that will be great.

Letting the Master’s Hand guide our hand, we find freedom flowing freely onto and into our canvas. In doing His will in our life, we are set free. A freedom indescribable at times as we are lost to the distractions of the past. Caught up in the hope and love of today.

The Master guides our hand, willingly or even unwillingly at times in our artistic endeavor. As we learn to relax and give Him control of our hands, He reveals the beauty that is within us. It is great.

I have heard being an artist and painting described as being easy but living life as being difficult and unsure. Life can be described as a series of brush strokes, choices. Some can destroy the beauty intended for our canvas. Some strokes can create breath-taking beauty which radiates outward, inspiring the ones observing our portrait.

This was inspired by a young friend of mine, she left a few brush strokes on my life. They will not be painted over. They will be treasured, remembered for a long time to come.

When I look into a mirror, I want to see Jesus, the Creator of my portrait.

Her tongue like a whip.
Her words lashed
Across my back
Leaving weeping welts of pain.
A balm administered
To ease the hurt
But the memory
Lingers.
Spilt wine
Can't be put back into the bottle.