I am tired of being paranoid to stay alive
The paranoia is like a cell
My thoughts buzz like a hive
I am trapped in my own hell
Depression is the bolt on the door
Nightmares are the guard
Beating me until I am crying on the floor
Until my soul is scarred
My anxiety is the shackles on my wrists
Cutting into my skin
Why does it hurt to exist
But there are sprinkles of hope within
My will struggles to prevail
I keep trying to make progress
Eventually the pain will look small in scale
Eventually there will be happiness in excess

An aching song
replaces the windful soul
of branches clanking on
to rhythms growing old-
-
the residue
of explosive tunes
drowns out the view
of old- now new.
-
there’s so much red in the sunset
so much red in the onset
so much red in the eyelids
so many tears still falling,
there’s not much green in the audience,
much more green in faucet
hidden green in the closet
too many tears still falling.
-
white hills with wheels
made of steel and fear
look to **** and steal
while the white hills men cheer.
-
gold dripping water
from self righteous fathers
get stored far from the thirsty
so they can gain and barter.
-
there’s no way to heal everyone
unless we become many ones,
reaching out to hold the youth
from plummeting into a deadly sun.
there aren’t many ones,
yet far too many anyones-
ghosts too selfish to lift a finger
or gain souls to breathe a helpful song.
-
when will good will
and will power will
something more than death
over every hill?
when will good will
and will power will
something innocent
instead of thrilling kills?
when will good will
and will power will
something truly good
to be a hearty fill?
when will good will
and will power’s will
be enough to keep us pure
enough to love still?

They called it ruin, wreck, and waste – my life that was…
But I was walking into grace.  
The smoke they saw was burning lies,  
While I looked upward, I cleared my eyes

I walked through the smoke, the heat, and the ash – but not alone…
Christ met me where the flames had grown.  
He didn’t flinch, With outstretched hand He pulled me free,  
And rewrote all my history.  

So let them talk – I serve the King,  
Not bound by guilt or suffering.  
My life is His, made clean, made new,  
Flames of mercy burning through.

Each and every stranger wears a mask,
Concealing stories of joy and tragedy.
These masks are whittled into plain shapes,
And painted with mundanity.
Because they're cautious enough to hide from abhorrent eyes.

Every person is a gift from God.
To forget that is a sin,
And the greatest mistake one could ever make.

I've met so many wonderful people in my short life.
Some carried pure warmth in their hearts, offering it up to others.
But most kept to themselves, afraid to share in felicity.
Oftentimes, I ponder on their memory,
Wondering what it would've been like if I had met these wary souls.