Friday, April 11, 2008

Will you still meet me on the sunny road?

Bodily feelings, unprevokably written across your skin
those that you would rather just press and push to the side.
You'd rather run them off, but you know they'd just stay.
Settled in, because once they are thought, they are felt
they do not go away.
They are forgiven, they are driven
but they are not forgotten. For a good long while atleast.
Because what is captured in the pictures of myself, and of you
of smiles and sincerity, it is so much and too much more than your brain should ever be able to capacitate. It is that depression
anxiety, and panic that you so easily slip into. That a voice of good faith,
a voice of good heart, you. Can save me only when I am at my lowest.
God given gifts. These individuals that just refuse to let you, refuse to
give up. You that just wouldn't let me go.
There are simple explanations, simple connotations for the way things are
and Dear Lord I have to pray that you'd bring me peace, in a heart full of pitfalls
full of regret, lack of belief in who I am--and where I stand
Lord stand with me on something, sort of like stability, and let me know
You know, that I am kept.
I am held in the arms of something wrapping and wrapping
and gripping again at something more than I have known, thus far
because I..I know few, who knew--the potential--the potentiating effects, affects,
lives of You.

There once was a girl. She lived in her mind even amongst her friends.
Youth and some sort of beauty and belief in, life? Was what kept her
afloat. Along the way she'd encountered, discouraging factors
the hope she'd care kept the masses, surrounding, full of her
and joy hers was filtered along to all.
She wept, she kept, she slept from time to time.
Now, and then she'd think of those who'd come and go and dwelled
inside, every now and again, she try and squeeze with everything around
out the deranged centricity of those who clung and fed, when they felt the need
and God how she needed more than she could suck
from those around. To have, and hold, and know that there was one who could feel.
Like you, and I, and all around you breath because it really is worth it.
More than this. Stalled tempts at what we really want.
And she wants to know just what you really want?

What do we really want?

Thursday, April 10, 2008

nancy wilson

There something about the strum of a guitar that can make you want to stay up all night long just to listen. Just because you don’t want to miss it. The peace of that dreamy wakeness that makes that individual’s fingers pluck the hum, the resonance, the crescendo, decrescendo, break, chorus, scale, whatever. So long as they just keep on playing. Their fingers are the breath that keeps you awakened. Keeps the mind clear from thinking, for all that time, hours even away from anything. That music keeps you in your seat. Melds you to the leather, the cotton, the fabric that felt sticky, uncomfortable moments ago. You are that chair.
Music leaves us sinking, waking, sleeping, nussling, touching, warm and runny, chilled, smiling satisfaction, staying far past our curfew, staying up until the sun comes up, huddled by the fire, glowing, alive in a pitch black room, with nothing but a candle between us, silent, peaceful, kept, self assurance, well with the world.