in this generation

in this generation,
we are all afraid
of eyes that peer too deep
and ears that hear too well
the secrets of the heart that have been locked
with keys thrown into the abyss

in this generation
we are lost but told we're found
by some one two step fix all
someone has paid for your college
someone has bought your coffee
the world is great if you just open you eyes
they say while i'm worried about my little sister who
hasn't eaten in 4 days

in this generation
even the music sounds different
i'll just filter the search engine and see if
a new sound will inspire me to more than just
a billionaire, a volunteer, or a sandwich maker
i'd like to be a writer
but the homeless man is an artist
and my counselor says i would be foolish

in this generation
the noise keeps me up at night
not only the lights and the sounds
but the noise of things to come
will there be room for me
will there still be things for me to invent
will my boss be ok with someone who took the summer off
just to be with the family

in this generation
we worry about the little things
and the little things don't care
and the big guys call the shots
and their money feeds two mouths
and the ocean fills with tears
of two babies by the road side
but i'm here concerned about eyes
that peer too deep
and ears that hear too well
and the lost key that i threw into the abyss.

I know Him who I believe
Whose light never dies, even in death
It goes forever onward, after and before me
So shadow exists not
But in memory

He that shines his light
Will walk in light
On hills and in valleys
He that lives in light
Will live on with light
And fear exists not
But in memory

Do you know Him who I believe?
Whose light never dies, even in death?
Will you go forever onward
Where shadow and fear exists not
But in memory?

a lonely voice called into the darkness
but the darkness did not answer.

still the voice called on
"what is it you have that i should listen?" asked the darkness.

"i can keep you company."

anna wanted to make something. she lived at home with her husband james. every morning, james came by her bedside to kiss her goodbye.

"have a good day." he'd say. through the warm spring and snowy winters, james went to work and anna stayed home.

anna dabbled in various art forms. she made watercolor floral and wrote poetry. but anna was sorely unhappy. her heart laid empty without purpose or form.

in the spring she sat under the lighted trees wondering about what the meaning of life was. under cover of early night, she peered through the darkness of her window wondering when her morning of hope would arrive.

james was a lovely husband, supportive in all anna's endeavors. and this made anna even more ill at ease. she felt useless.

"poor me." she pitied.

she was stuck. the kind of stuck that can't be unstuck with a word or two. not even a chocolate cake could unstuck this stuck that she felt.

inside her heart was a yearning unlike any other. a chemical imbalance of the mind that she couldn't just fix willingly. she was deep in sorrow. the kind that called for endless weeping.

all the things she loved was a dim light in the darkness traveling farther and farther away from her. or rather, she from them. it was that hopeless shedding of clothing in the endless tundra of snow in the middle of winter. she'd let it take her if she couldn't help it.

this hole she can't climb out of, no one can fathom the depths. an endless falling.

6 black walls around her. she was floating in the middle uncontrollably. she was terribly afraid.

she was deep in sorrow.

if only she could make something worthwhile, something beautiful that she could give to the world. but the world would take it from her shaking hands without a second glance.

"useless, useless." they'd say.

they say reality is better than a simulation.
if i should want for it, i am surely unwise.

but i haven't been able to stop dreaming of the beautiful mountains.
mountains my eyes have never seen.

and i can't stop imagining a world of sunlight.
in this moment, i sit under a cloudy sky.

That morning I woke up with the view of a ceiling in the sky. A glitch. The script had been forced to run; someone had forgotten to program it.

4 years ago

If I was a writer, I wouldn't mind staying up all night in my library, hidden from society but enveloped in a mirage of literary worlds. The shelves will be overflowing, breaking at the seams with words begging to be read and brought to life by the imagination. I'll be inspired, fed by the imaginary sphere of writers whose legacies went before me. I'll write and study and write some more of distant lands beyond the see-able universe, of a man who travels the dimensions and falls in love with Woman of the Wind, of a girl who can sing her heart's desires into being but mistakenly casts away her ability and searches the world over for it, of a whale who dreams of becoming a little mouse only to find how unsatisfactory it is to have to scurry on little limbs. And when I'm done with those, I'll write of normal things like rain on a tin roof, watermelon in a garden, and airplanes in the sky. There will be endless things to conjure up, there will always be more to say and I will never quit, never tire and never cease to let my mind rest. I'll become a lunatic before my imagination runs out. The history books will record of my manic artistry relinquished to society through proverbs and poems and I will become immortal, living in-between dusty covers that will age through centuries and, in one unimportant moment in time, be picked back up, flipped open and studied, cherished and revered for centuries to come.