What about you does God take pleasure in?

wow, my post before last was uber depressing. I'm so glad I chose to go to Celebrate Recovery. In just a few months I feel much higher, mentally and spiritually, and you can tell that even my poems are becoming more positive, well poem. In November, I wrote that writing is a waste of time which is a huge falsie because yesterday God told me that He takes pleasure in me when I'm creating and writing. That was Huge. It made me cry because of the horrible attitude I've had towards something that God loves me to do. If the world never deems my writing successful, it doesn't matter anymore because God loves when I do it!!! Amen to that, and this makes me want to write more poems.

getting back into it...

this year of favor
upon my bobbling head
will hold with it
no more dread.

this battle of mine,
belonging to the mind,
is foregoing its right
to submit to a fight.

no more defeat
for we've already won
this year of favor
was bestowed by the One.

i get bored, easily

I hadn't written a poem in a while because doing so makes me feel like a fraud. but anyways, i suppose i like crime, cuz here's another one:

The bike

Drums, strumming away the
leaves in the front yard where a bike
is stolen.
It was his first bike, the drummer's
and now his son's, or was.
It went away with the leaves
to a place where forgotten things die.
He drums a new tune to soothe
the boy's tears.
He cries a lot.
Every time a leaf falls, he cries.

i suppose i haven't been writing here because i think it's wasted time, but, again, i unfortunately like wasting time. that's why i'm still here. not sure if i've grown much lately. i'm still pessimistic, overly negative, and prone to depression, anxiety, worry and fear. i don't feel sorry for myself at all though. these have all been my choices. i just hope i start making some good choices soon, otherwise i'll be here forever...

writing poems

Honestly, I don't think I'm that good of a poet, and I don't particularly like writing poems, but, as you can see, I continue to write them, against my own will. Just one of the mysteries of life.

Juvenile Eyes

My grandmother’s eyes kept me wondering,
What a grandmother was,
Long after she stopped being one.

In her juvenile eyes
The drugs of the past were present.
Her poppy seed pupils once frightened
My stems, green legs connected to hers.
Quivering roots collapsing,
My father’s spread petals
Caught my legs, made them straight,
So my grandmother could try again.

In her juvenile eyes
Snow melted into icy puddles.
I tried to drink from them and nearly
Choked, yet continued, trying.
How badly I wanted to nourish
The whites of her eyes.

My grandmother, you tried
To teach me your tongue,
Time is tiempo, you said.
I’m still working on its meaning.

The child you were, my grandmother,
Left me wondering
What a grandmother was.
But your juvenile eyes assured me
We are all children
Regardless of the word.

caring enough to wonder

sometimes i wonder
sometimes i wonder if anyone cares like me
if anyone feels like me
if anyone listens like me
and sometimes i wonder
if i care like someone
if i feel like someone
if i listen like someone
if someone is at all like me
if i am at all like You

It all began with the word wax...

Axeer

wax in you ear
tax is your fear
quacks say your queer
cracks in your mirror
Pax chants your seer
smacks from your jeer
backs to your tear
relax I Am here.

haha

A Martian Named John

There’s a Martian living on my block,
Don’t know if we’ll exchange breaths today.
His arms are red with claws for toes,
And often he’ll shout words through his nose.

See my block is in the ‘burbs, they say,
The southern part of San Jose.
And the people here are nice, I guess,
But they like to close their doors and walls.

On one special day, the claws came out to play.
“I’ve lived here 7 years”, the Martian said,
So full of dread, “And never did I know a man,
Who lives within that tree-lined pad.”

The Martian said his name was John, (Hello everyone, my name is John)
But all these years he went by Bob. (People just started calling me Bob)
The neighbors gaped, they did not know,
As John’s neutral mask fell to the flo’.

And underneath the real thing looked,
At all the neighbors, ready with hooks.
But I stood out and yelled, “Please wait,
Don’t you see what John’s done this day?”

The people turned toward unknown faces,
Unknown kids and unknown races.
A man who’d complained of overgrown branches,
Finally said thanks for apple packed lunches.

And all the people met their neighbors,
Shook hands and patted backs that gave them,
A quiet place to live and stay, but John
He up and walked away, and winked at me,

As he left for now. Would they remember,
Red arms and claws and Martian face?
I’d never met a Martian before that day,
And I sure hoped he was here to stay.