It’s not my calling
To cry repentance
To command crowds
To submit to my will
It’s not my mission
To scoff
To scorn
To declare others’ worth
It’s not my errand
To prophesy
To condemn
To sift the wheat from the tares
It’s not my calling
To cry repentance
To command crowds
To submit to my will
It’s not my mission
To scoff
To scorn
To declare others’ worth
It’s not my errand
To prophesy
To condemn
To sift the wheat from the tares
Yesterday Left without sayingGoodbyeHe refusedTo speakAnd couldn’t findWordsTo leaveA small noteOr textMessage At leastI have Today
Empty bowlgrumbling hunger–why is there no food? Scorched seedsdrifting directionless–hoping for life in barren soil. Cracked well,leaking water–mocking parched souls their unquenchable thirst. Lonely footprintsshifting in sand–lost without a willing guide. Threadbare cloak,dangling forlorn on a rusted hook–barely sheltering those left in the cold. Withering vines,trembling leaves–yearning for a smog-cloaked sun. Rusted gateguarding mocked cries–echoing…
This poem was inspired by a creek I used to play in when younger. Water is a frequent theme of mine for some reason.
When I was young, late-night adventuresof dancing,of dining, of playing cardswith friendswas my declarationof independenceover sleep. But nowthe most thrilling Friday night means falling asleepin reclinerwhile semi-rivetedin a streaming documentaryabout the history of cheese.
Come one, come all, to my corner gift shop,I’ve got hope on the shelves, with great bargains to drop.You’ll find hope in the candles, down the aisle on the right,Small flames that flicker through the darkest of night. There’s hope in the blankets, so soft, so warm,To wrap up your worries, and weather each storm.Hope…
I yearn for puffy clouds painted pink by Sahara sands.