it's our time.

so quick the pen touches the page.
this is the way it's supposed to be.
these words flow from my head
to my fingertips
without a layed out plot
or a planned out thought.
screaming of truth in each scribbled word
so it comes naturally
these ryhmes and rhythms.
the tips of my fingers
eagerly putting to paper
what I can't even speak.
my eyes see and my fingers speak.
of glory that doesnt match a description.
so let-
if only one thing-
let this count.
the way you feel.
the way things look.
appear.
seem.
let it count.
with every ounce of your soul.
let it count.
though our hearts cant make sense of it
and our minds dont care to try.
a small moment of glory.
this is it.
this is truth.
and this,
this is where we collide.

"For those who can still ride an airplane for the first time"

"I am looking for God Quinton, while this world says fuck you for trying. This world hates your eyes Quinton, for they are small and pure. And Quinton, this world hates your fingers, little like the stems of flowers, for not being able to pick up the things you left behind because you are still learning to do so. . . here in a world where beliefs are like naps, you leave them behind when someone touches you. . . and these days, I'm looking for God everywhere"

check this link to hear him read the whole thing, he is incredible. :)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a6UBxcFFdAY

forgetting what my life has cost.

I spent some time in the story of Christ's crucifixion in John and Mark. And before you read the poem I wrote I just have a few thoughts first. First of all... the picture posted is from the movie Passion of Christ, which I have not seen, but I do plan on it one day. Anyways,I think often we think of the crucifixion story and we think of the redemption part, the part where the tomb is empty. Little of Easter, at least my Easters, have been spent in the death part. The part where Jesus died. Jesus who had never once known a moment without his Father's direction was forsaken. He died. He carried a cross, a heavy cross, there was literal nails nailed into his hands and his feet, his head had thorns, a crown of them on his head. His blood poured everywhere. I think I often overlook this aspect. I see Easer as this commercial time and when reading the story for devotions with the family or in church so much emphasis is put on when Jesus rose. And he did, I am not trying to downplay that at all. Without his rising the story would not be complete. What I'm saying is that I forget he died, I forget the torment, the pain that he went through TO save me. I see the outcome and forget the process. Reading the story with this in mind humbles me, and this picture humbles me. so this poem I wrote, it's not wordy or elaborate, it's the story of Christ's death. Comments of course, are welcome.


their spit hit his face
'the king of the Jews' put on display
mocked and tormented
the crimson saving blood running down his face
they shouted crucify him, crucify him.

eloi eloi lama sabactani
elio elio lama sabactani
my God, my God
why have you forsaken me?

a crown of thorns was given,
placed on his head.
his hands and feet, peirced with nails.
the crimson saving blood flowing from his limbs.
they shouted crucify him, crucify him.

eloi eloi lama sabactani
eloi eloi lama sabactani
my God, my God
why have you forsaken me?

he shouted one last time
breathed his final breath.
the curtains were torn, and the earth trembled.
the shouts rung in their ears... crucify him, crucify him.

the crimson saving blood for our hearts.

to love at all.

it taunts me.
haunts me.
tries to whisper in my ear.
tell me of the depth and realness,
of which I'm not a part.
I've chosen a path,
and I'd like to walk it.
For some time at least.
All this..it's overated.
Past its due date of destruction.
These smiles, and promises.
Most of which, empty,
those? I'll have no part.
You speak of realness, deepness,
of love you say,
irrevocable.
The past screams 'no',
the present talks a 'one day'.
and the future, struggles to whisper a barely audible
'try'.
So my thoughts, my past, present, and future
they argue in my head,
and i lie awake,
in bed.
Making cliche ryhmes and
sorry excuses.
One day, the layer will be shed
the one unconsciously being carried.

"There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket-safe, dark, motionless, airless-it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternate to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only one place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all dangers and perturbations of love is hell. "

C.S. Lewis.