Someone Who'll Never Stand You Up

I've just been thinking, and it sucks when a good friend of yours stands you up. Especially when it's not just one time, but it's so often that you've just stopped trusting your friend. You begin to stop putting your trust in them and eventually get tired of waiting around for someone who'll never show up. This has happened to me too many times where someone has said they would come in ten minutes, so I'd rush to get ready and wait by the door for hours, but they wouldn't come. What sucks the most is not even getting a phone call to say they can't make it. I've gone certain days without doing homework because I would spend the whole day waiting for a friend to pick me up. Although this can really hurt, the cool thing is, there is a God who keeps His promises all the time. He doesn't just say something, and that word means nothing, but His word is always 100% genuine and true. He promises to come back again, and He intends to keep His promise. He's not like that friend that never shows up. When you call, He's there right away. You don't have to wait hours to talk to Him or make an appointment just to hang out with Him. I think it's real cool knowing Someone who's completely trustworthy and will never let you down.

The Vast Field

The hideous smell perked up as she tried to hide its revolting and malignant odour. Her parents had always raised her to know right from wrong. It was like she heeded their warning and went ahead with her loathsome deed. She had steered away from the path of wisdom and took the thorny way. Voices were drowned as she listened to the hateful aspect of her flesh. There was no forgiveness for her crime. It haunted her night and day. She could have been accused as a heretic if she lived in the past. She wondered if grace could be enough in her time of despair and reproach. Tears poured out of her eyes as though a faucet had sprung a leak and a thousand plumbers couldn't fix the problem. She bowed her head in utter shame and vehemently began to scream her distress. No one could hear her. This was the greatest sadness she had ever known. To look up, and see no one there. To know no one had sympathy for her pathetic needs. The King's princess had lost her way and the crimson dress of saphron was tattered and torn.

The field was vast. Full of endless possibilities. Full of hope. Happiness... the perfect place for death. The sky was the limit. If she ended it now she could be seen as a martyr- sacrificing herself so others wouldn't have to suffer the same fate. Her bottle of aspirin seemed like the perfect solution. The perfect cover-up. The purest way to end her suffering and bring about her demise.

She contemplated with her emotions, jumping back and forth, while the demonic voices grew louder and their armies strengthened. It was through this agression that she noticed her hand. Her right hand. The simplicity of it awed her. The complexity in its structure seemed fathomless. It was at this hand that she stared and examined for hours. The lines. The texture. The colour. It was a part of the body that had the potential to do a lot of harm, or it could honour and serve those around her. She only had to make a choice.

It was then that she thought about forgiveness. She thought of the freedom in being released and how much she ached for that feeling. Maybe all she had to do was ask for it. Maybe the choice was her own. Free will. As she felt the lines in her hand, she slowly felt peace. An elixir of life. A concept she couldn't grasp, but a state she wanted to reach.

Her tears had slowly stopped pouring. Forgiveness seemed closer and closer. Her heart of brokeness could mend. Grace could be received if she just opened her hands and lifted them to the heavens. As she silenced the violent noises in her head that were creating a genocide, a quiet whisper could be heard:

"Beloved, you are Mine".

It echoed. It got louder. It repeated until it consumed all the guilt. Until victory was achieved in the bloody war. It filled her with joy. The voice got so loud that no other voice could be heard.

The steeple could be seen a few miles away. A promise of hope. A covenant of forgiveness. Out of the despair she rose, never to look back again.

The Princess' Demise

My doll still stands on that corner shelf.
I loved her and played with her everyday.
Her dull, lifeless, black eyes mirror my life now.

I would run for miles to the middle of nowhere.
Braid flowers in my silky, raven hair.
Friends told me I was wonderful.

Smiles were always put on my face.
All of Mother Nature looked down upon me with radiant joy.
I was the princess living high above the peasants.

My white dress would flow in a field of yellow daisies.
These dark eyes gleamed with joy.
Happiness always flowed out of my breath.

The hue of passion was sown on my breast.
I was royalty in a desecrated world.
My tiara was adorned with baby’s breath.

Though I was not like everyone else,
I looked the same as everyone else;
Bled the same colour as everyone else.

Life was mine and I was Life’s.

I would hurt, and my Daddy would pick me up.
Lullabies were sung into my ear as I lay down to rest.
Sleeping, sleeping, I dreamed dreams like everyone else.

My uncanniness brought along a forlorn presence.
This realization made me view things differently.
Maybe this is where my demise began.
Soon, my dress was torn and stained in blood.
My tiara was thrown off my head.

I was no longer Life’s, yet Life was still mine.

Her Hero's Lament

A piece out of a collection I'm trying to work on.

I.
You loved me.
Do you remember?

I was your hero.
Somewhere I failed.

You hid.
And I searched.

I had not the power to find you.
It could not be the same.

Your heart was cold.
Your body quivered.

The man did not stand behind you with his gun.
Though I couldn't be your hero.

II.
Your education won't save you.
I may be dumb, but that one's easy.

What are you without love?
Ha, cast that mountain to the sea!

Listen, listen.
I'm waiting.

Come home, Princess.
My heart is empty.

Smile wide and feel safe.
The door is open -
I'm waiting.

Skeletons of Suburbia

This was inspired by a story I heard once.

I
Passion hurts.
To be passionate, you must leave something behind.
It is rewarded by spitting and evil, haunting stares.
Death waits at every corner.
Muscles ache where they never have before.
Your fragile body longs for comfort.
The city lights keep you safe and far from danger, but not for long.
This is where thousands make their home.

II
My house was clean.
It was far from the nightmare of my past.
I no longer woke up to hear the orchestra of death's devastating screams.
I was no longer called those hurtful, degrading names.
But something wasn't right.
I needed to leave safety behind.
My bags were packed and I hit the streets.

III
Up and down those roads I walked.
No where to lay my head.
No money to stop the hunger pains.
I looked into their eyes for a little compassion.
But there was none.
They walked away and went on with life.
No longer did I have my comfortable bed.
No longer did I have the sweet lullaby of my mother.

IV
I just kept moving.
Kept pursuing passion.
I am broken.
Abandoned.
Lost.

V
No one has to care for me.
I was their product.
Their guinea pig.
I am a Skeleton of Suburbia.