No stranger to brokenness,
Outward or within.
No foreigner to our damages,
Or any type of sin.
He rubbed shoulders with the beggar,
And broke bread with the lame.
The harlot and the tax collector,
He loves them all the same.
So when you think you’ve gone too far,
Cast your eyes on them.
And know the life of Christ, our God,
Who was poured out for all men.
Don’t listen to the enemy.
Whatever he may say,
And know whenever God saves “them,”
Well, we are those “they.”

The sadness in my eyes
Can you see it?
It hides behind the laugh lines
Worn in by days of old.
It cowers under the smile crinkles
That have been etched so fine.
I do have that mischievous grin,
That twinkle that reflects the brightness without,
But when the lights go down,
And the evening wears on,
The sadness in my eyes,
Can you see it?

No one counts the grains of sand
until the last few abandon
their perch atop the glass.

We care not for the song
until the final strain of notes
fade to an eerie silence.

Unnoticed goes the sun
until its journey ends
as it kisses the western horizon.

I suppose what I mean to say,
is in a world that keeps turning,
with people that keep moving,
and things that keep changing,
we do not notice the blessings,
the beauties, or the opportunities
until their time here is done.
In absence, we find appreciation,
but in normality we find forgetfulness.

But fear not the passing things,
for in a life full of closures,
with oncoming completions,
and repeated resolutions,
in the endings we find the beginnings,
the restarts, and the chances anew
when they are least expected.

So fear not, for the hourglass will turn
and though time will not stop for you
it will also never end.

When the ballad fades to silence,
it trades places with another tune
that you will be sure to hear.

And with every sunset comes a sunrise,
so do not forget the sun tomorrow
as it caresses your skin all day long.

Our name is the thing
That connects us to our life.
Every event, moment, action
Of importance can be simply
Conjured by one name.
Few, simple words spoken
To become emotions so strong
And link us to a being
That we may call our own.
And though I know this to be true,
I am haunted by this one dilemma:
Why is it the speaking of your name
To which my life is tied.

Sitting in our heart of hearts
a kindled pile awaits,
hoping for that tiny spark
that will awake its fate.
Soon to be an ember,
smoldering away,
if we allow that light to catch
and let it have its say.
Flickering to life it comes
once the fire has caught
and nothing can deter its path
with no battle left unfought.
Be wary of this fragile fire
lest it becomes a blaze
and unleash a force so very great
it consumes your ways.
For inside each of us can burn a passion
so pure, wild, untamed,
beware for it’s your only chance
to douse an eternal flame.

It's not you
It's not me
It's us.

If someone ever asks you
if you have change to spare,
You'll dig inside your pockets
But you won’t find it there.
You’re baffled at their ignorance,
You really can’t be blamed
For up upon that horse so high,
nothing looks the same.
And people most unlike yourself?
you think they must be taught.
but it is you who must understand,
that this change cannot be bought.

an empty page
a hopeless start
a blank beginning.
the moment before the brush hits
or the pen touches the sheet.
right before the music starts
or the bridge is burned.
life is full of “almost”s
of “not yet”s
and “just a second”s.
so don’t be afraid of that moment
where your breath catches,
or your heart skips a beat.
because life is full of “thank you”s
of “never again”s
and of everything in between.

Here's to the pennies
Returned at the register;
Here's to the sweaters
In the midst of summer;
Here's to the instrument
You can no longer play;
Here's to the book
At the back of the shelf;
Here's to the song
You loved in childhood,
Or this poem you read
In the days to come;
Here's to the things forgotten
That will always still be.

A bead of sweat trickles down my neck as I shift anxiously,
left foot, right foot, a little hop.
Two cars, barely intertwined, stall my walk home.
Five-years-old and impatient, I wait for my mom
across the street, getting the unofficial accident report
from the crossing guard.

The high wall on our right conveniently blocks out the sun,
My friends and I giggle at our independence
as we walk to Girl Scout Troop 462’s meeting.
In sixth grade we think we know how to check our corners
How to be cautious and how to be safe,
but we know we still have to wait for the crossing guard.

The sun glares down as I squint across the street,
just free of sixth period, I've started my walk home,
But the boy from science class is goofing off with his friend.
He doesn’t notice me and I try not to stare,
I want his attention but four lanes separate us
thanks to the crossing guard.

Sophomore year means I walk home with a boy holding my books,
and I hold his hand even though it’s hot out.
Those four lanes mean nothing
to me and that boy from science class.
I barely notice as I’m motioned to stop at the curb,
and the crossing guard holds up her sign.

Tears, not sweat, wet my face as junior year ends.
I drag my feet on the walk home, and carry my own books.
I am not paying attention to curbs or crosswalks,
but when I reach her street,
she gives me a smile and motions for me to wait,
And the crossing guard helps me on my way back home.

We round the corner the last week of August
in the family car packed full with my college necessities.
I wait anxiously for the light to turn green,
So I can begin life in “the real world,” be independent.
In my haste and excitement,
I don’t notice the crossing guard.

I don’t walk home anymore.
With adulthood comes a car and an insurance bill,
and the sweat and tears come for different reasons.
One day she was gone and never came back.
And when she died I had to remember
to check my own corners before I cross the street.

The girl in my favorite jacket
with my exact shade of hair.
The one with my same freckles
and that unamused stare.

She knows me more than anyone
and, at the same time, not at all.
So many noted, collected traits
but without the final call.

Kind or fun or silly
or whatever I may seem.
I know each of the parts of me
But what do they all mean?

The mirror shows me what I know
from outside, not within.
My reflection, both in and outwards,
leads to no conclusion.

I stare at them in earnest
with hope to realize
and as they stare back I ask myself,
what color are my eyes?

Shadowed thoughts drowned out
By the brilliant light of day,
Cowering in crevices
So that they still may stay.

They’ll wait until the sun goes
Until they reappear,
Yet as dusk turns into darkness
They re-emerge as fears.

And their secret tactic
As they try and get to you?
When it gets dark outside,
It gets dark inside too.