Tame my idealistic tounge. I shout from my comfort about the spiritual benifits of suffering. Talking of peace and making peace with yourself and the world are different things. Wisdom that is heavenly is pure, is submissive, full of mercy, impartial and sincere. The wisdom I seek is powerful and full of pride. My untamed tounge drips with the drool of good things I should have said. I consume other peoples ideas for my glory. And spit them out when I decide what their flaw is. A harvest of righteousness?

I'm addicted to the sound of my own voice. Can it happen this way every time I open my mouth? It's not profound. In fact it is quite dull and often vacuous obsequiousness. I said those words because I like the way they sound next to each other not because I really know what they mean. I can't get enough. It fills a void to spit words like accomplishments. Each one a prideful ego boost to a man who pretends he wants to become humble. The type of humiltiy people respect of course. The type that others want but only I can articulate. Only I have the proper words to describe the sheer magnitude of the humility that I seek. I will shut up now. But only because I have too.

Manage my ability to be involved in the mystical. Not too much so as to rock the boat. I wish that there was a way to become good at knowing what to say. I am saying I would take that class. If my encouraging words are seldom heard it is because I am in Kansas. Perhaps I should tell her that. But what if I was to know exactly what she needed to hear? I would feel like a trickster saying it. A manipulative magician working tricks in her to change the way she sees things. Is Jesus like magic? Is it wrong to want him to be? Than again I want results more than I want answers. Just go ahead and fix it all and it will be okay. Don't feel like you have to tell me more than that it is done. Thy will be done is what I am trying to say I suppose. Or is that my cop out of the day? Cynical people question everything even their sincerity in questioning everything. That's why cynicism kills encouragement; it is too caught up in the flaws of self and society to push the tender hearts that carry their flaws like heavy luggage without wheels. Stop standing at the baggage carasoul critiquing the possessions of your peers and run to help her, before the sheer weight makes her miss her flight. Mystisize me.

I used to think cracked hands didn't hurt.
That dry man hands just felt like regular hands.
I used to wonder why he came home so tired sometimes.
It seemed like he never could get rested.

Feeling in Color I awake with a stiff neck after a day of almosts and a night of swirling sleep. I can't see the plan unfold I can only have faith. Faith is feeling out of control and not caring. What would it look like to share my mind as it happens. Moment to moment each picture is something to give her, something she won't understand but she will love. I hate not knowing how to fix life. Fixing is so much eaiser when you know how. I really cuts down on the Bull Shit. But I am not called to know but to follow without knowledge. Bull Shit is not my calling.

Solitude filled with technology. Druged by the hope of new distraction. Don't think to long on one page or you will be left to die alone. Fake excitement popping in my brain like spyware. Where did this shit come from? On my knees in my apartment crying like I have never cried before. Did I really say those things? Manufacured need; faulty desire.

If today could last forever.
I would hold her like there is no tommorow.

I can cut the silence with a knife. I hear the sound of disconnect coming from my fingers. Pens are irreleveant in a paperless society. Take to the formula and dangle a carrot in front of it. It will stay put. I don't eat vegtables. I want to have my cake and eat it too and diet and call people who diet dumb and on and on until I don't know if cake is cake anymore. Bull shit is an art form. I work in the medium of Bull's Shit. I sculpt. With my hands. Is dreaming different than your doing lying to God? He put those dreams in me. Or are they temptations. Opprotunitty knocks and I make fun of someone else for hearing it because I know there is no such thing. Mystify me. I think I am better than everyone sometimes.

He Gives and Takes Away

My hand is gripping the things I call mine. The things I build myself from, and out of, and for. My hand begs the question "Can I possess?"

I need ownership to feel alive, but is feeling alive and being a living soul the same thing?

In my pile of comfort, covered in expensive feathers, plucked from expendable geese, I try to hide from possibility and from providence. From the taker.

Life is not mine. They are not mine. She is not mine. Is anything mine?