hurry up and get it down

before it slips away

like water through fingers

falling right out of my head

like that lingering sweetness

of something good lost

and I wonder why I bother

scrambling for a scrap of paper

and pen to write it out

who reads my words anyway

and why do I care if you do





saying all the things

something in me says I’m supposed to have more words

fight the power

speak the truth

but right now my words are so few and far between

like butter spread over too much toast

like socks worn thin

like the way the house feels when you can’t quite get the heat to warm away the chill that’s settled into your bones and you can’t afford to turn it up anymore so you put on another sweater but it’s still not quite enough…

like sadness

because there are so many things

so many hurts

and they aren’t mine

and they are so very mine

and I want to have the words to say

but they just don’t come

can you hear my silence?

It’s not apathy

It’s not agreement with these evil deeds

I’m simply at a loss

for words



brushing off

“What are you doing with your life?” they ask me…

                      “Oh, I’ve been riding my bike

                                                          down flights of stairs                  

                                                                                              in rollerblades 

                                                                                                                    wearing… a hat?”

Rob Bell just gave it such an apt description and now I’ve landed in a heap at the bottom. Laying there, panting and in shock for just a moment, disoriented and sore, rather astounded that I haven’t died – or at least broken something beyond repair – I might just mutter…

                                                “Hot damn, that last bit there was kind of fun…”      img_0849