Time, And Life, And Their Importances.

Time, And Life, And Their Importances.

I want to write sexual poetry at 5:30 in the morning.

I want to bull rush the motor cars in the near vicinity.

I want to slap the unkind in the faces, and wake up the kind.

I want to read through endless words that may or may not be meaningful.

I want to add colors to all four of my walls.

I want to make permanence about the temporary facets connected to me.

I want to label every piece of matter with a beautiful word.

I want to smash the clocks in my mother's house and hug people tight.

I want to develop every mediocrity that's ever been announced to me.

I want to scream until I can't breathe above the water.

I want to paint a coat of glaze over every orifice of perverts' bodies.

I want to erase all sense of worry that I've ever felt creeping into the nooks of my mind and my concepts of life.

JOT.

If I just listened more carefully,

I'd learn the rhythms of her heels

As she rolls her shoulders back

And sneers all the way,

Down the lobby.

If I reached a little farther,

I would find more of the beads

That she left in her purse

The beads from her

Old friends.

I have the worst habits,

And she has them,

But we're not the same - no, we're not even close and her beads are much bigger than mine.

Mine are easier to lose,

To forget.

Poetry enjoys taking itself seriously.

Huh. Why not?

I don't ever want to read another piece of writing that is not my own again. And somehow, I feel like I can make that sound a degree or two less incredibly self-absorbed. And I'm sure the scant amount of people that actually check this stuff out might be able to understand that. I hate feeling like I've been molded by all the literature, all the recent mezcla that's tapped into my subconscious, and everyone I talk to or read from on a daily basis. It's so strange that the way we piece together our words, the way we "shape ourselves" stylistically is based around our favorite parts of the world outside of our intellect. And in a way, it's all very much contained within our own intellect - I guess we just perceive it that way. As if it was really our own.

I've been doing mildly rebellious things lately. And when I look at the things, they're really silly from the Joe perspective. It's just this fun little secretive thing I've been doing to entertain myself in one light. Mostly.

But you know I don't really want to make a list of them here, and the fact that I don't want to tell people about all these silly things just proves that I've been brainwashed into thinking I have to be a stick to honor my God. That's just it. I've been trying so hard to free myself of all nonsense, and trying to stick to the Bible more and more, and stick to the Holy Spirit like glue. Inside I know I crave the Word, and I crave the freedom to be with God on my own and not holding the hand of the church on my left, and the hand of my past experiences on my right. When I say church - don't get me wrong, I'm not referring to the real deal, Christ's GF or anything, just you know..the people. As much as it's so necessary to have relationships with the people, we shouldn't paste the words of our peers into an extended version of the Bible.

Communion Cups

Thank you God.

For the ocean.

Thank you God.

For the family.

Thank you God.

For the vehicle.

Thank you God.

For the ability to forgive.

Thank you God.

For helping me learn how to forget.

When I was a kid, about 8, before my mother got remarried, I was convinced the only reason my stepfather was placed on the earth was to make me jealous about sharing my mother. I figured it would be over after a certain amount of time, and it would be my mom and I again -- happy.

When I was a kid, about 8, and I can't stop thinking about this, my mom's boyfriend got mad at me for not wanting to bring my jack-0-lantern inside to the trash. It was rotting, but I was upset because he wanted to get rid of my work of art. I went outside, pouting and disappointed, and the door was locked when I tried to get back in. I knocked for a long time. No answer. I started to get scared - really scared. I was crying, and scared, and I was panicking.

I'm not sure if I was scared because I had no way of getting back inside on my own, because I was 8 and I never thought I'd have the problem of getting inside my own house, or because I felt like my mom and I would never be as close to each other again. I felt like my life was being intruded upon. It couldn't be natural - whatever was happening to my eight-year-old self. I mean, thinking about it, nobody - no adult, had ever acted maliciously towards me until that very moment. I still don't understand what makes people mean enough to do hateful things like that to people they love. But they're still doing it. I wonder what they think about. I wonder how they feel about it.

Thank you God.

For giving me a mom that unlocked that door, and for giving me a mom that wants to protect me from every evil.

My dad makes jokes about how I indubitably rant to all of my friends about him.

So let's be honest.

But after talking about it for so long with my charming and handsome boyfriend, we've concluded that life goes on, and neither of them - yeah, I guess, 'them' - are worth spending too much emotion on. Or any art really. So nope, you're not getting any creativity from me today. This is very normal stuff here. Very basic stuff. (Thanks, God! You're so cool, we capitalize pronouns for you all over the place.)

Crime and Punishment

I'm not sure why humans are so needlessly hypocritical, but they certainly are, and I certainly am.

I try to set these weird examples sometimes, and sometimes I don't even know that I'm doing it. And even sometimes, my friends or some acquaintance notices and shares their appreciation and I'm reminded of why I live life the way I do. Or at least try to most of the time. I wish I could be more direct about the way that I share God. I'm so bad at it, I feel like. I'm too passive. I'm stuck between being a "normal" person and being a shepherd, and being a witness.

For example, why do I feel the need to remove God's name from my poetry or writing or daily dialogue? I run circles around the subject and throw about 2,000 hints but I can't be straightforward because that would be losing my personal cool or something like that. I wish people would tell me they have the same problem.

On another note, one of my friends got baptized and I was so happy to hear that. I love it when I see God like that in my friends. The way she told it to me made me happy.

The first sentence of this entry has nothing to do with the rest of the contents of this entry.

Us, the Linen Belt

And he funnels his flames down upon us as

we forget to throw away our carvings and

wood chips and blueprints of grim faces with

odd metal piercing. And one man has a shield.

The shield is fireproof and, although the man

makes desperate attempts to aid the carpenters

of a similar stature to his own, the circumference

of the shield is merely large enough to defend

his own hairs on top of his own oiled head.

And He will know this and understand this

but will not, does not relent - for though the

carvings and the blueprints have disappeared,

like any nail biting habit, they will arise again

when the atmosphere proves to be

comfortable enough once more.

So it is unfortunate to remark: "Drought,

Famine, Sword, Drought, Famine, Sword,"

But we are clingers to our deceits and

the shield-wielding man is a clinger to his

shield, and his mercy, and his Father, of whom

requires no blueprints or metallic piercing.

But what else can He do but to refine and test,

refine and test? Yet even in those days He will

not destroy them completely, and the shielded

man will feel much better. He will indeed, feel

much better about the ragged linen belt about

his middle.

Aforementioned:

Your hair was a sweet and sugary syrup on the blank canvas of your afterthoughts

After the monster in your mouth grappled with the incense dimly lighting your tonsils,

He ended each fingertip with a salvaging dance along your cuticles

And this is the story behind the poison you injected into your pitying phrases

This is the story between the decision you made and the numbness you experienced afterwards,

While glowing glory out behind the bends of your elbows

Hey. So, uh...

Attaching the words: "God-given" to a statement does not automatically make it the pure and holy Truth above all truths.

For example:

"Preserve the Constitution's God-given right to keep and bear arms."

Hey, I'm a mentally retarded convict named Sasquatch. God gave me the right to own a gun. NO.

These unalienable rights are not meant for everyone. This is why controversy exists over this particular topic. Guns allow anyone to kill anyone, and it's really freaking easy for people to get a hold of them. That is...anyone.

No, I'm not like completely opposed to people owning guns. I know a lot of very responsible and loyal citizens that would never be casual with their firearms. I just think that people need to stop thinking just about themselves, and start remembering that there are a whole lot of other people out there - a unique and diverse array of them, and their opinions count just as much as yours...going by the whole "equality" thing we sometimes take heed of.

Stop throwing God's name around, too. Being republican, being a patriotic American, being in the military, being whatever is looked highly upon by the USA these days - does not allow you to make blasphemous statements. Don't act like you and Jesus have late-night conversations about all the right answers to American policies.

And freaking be respectful of Obama. I'm very disappointed that several God-fearing people I know think it's OK to talk crap about our president. Here's a little reason why I feel this way:

1 Peter 2:13-17.

"Therefore submit yourselves to every ordinance of man for the Lord's sake, whether to the king as supreme, or to governors, as to those who are sent by him for the punishment of evildoers and for the praise of those who do good. For this is the will of God, that by doing good you may put to silence the ignorance of foolish men-- as free, yet not using liberty as a cloak for vice, but as bondservants of God. Honor all people. Love the brotherhood. Fear God. Honor the king."

Politics are crappy enough without having to drag God down with everything else.

There's just no way around it.

There's no way I'm ready to do this, or selfless enough to go through with this. But all the same... I'm doing it.

I don't really know what to expect, so I can't say that I'm excited. But I kind of do know what to expect. I know I'm going to be listening to God, or as much as possible. But the weird thing is, I haven't been close to Him at all lately. Really weird distance. It's like not being sure if your best friend is upset with you. That kind of a feeling, I guess, if you don't know God. I don't like it at all. But I'm doing it to myself. It's always my fault, never His. That part kind of sucks, because you know you can never ever be blameless. It's sort of something I haven't entirely let go of yet.

Blameless as a baby stomping on ants.

I just looked over some of my journals from my freshman and sophomore year of high school. I was so cocky, and so stuck and stubborn, and about five hundred other negative adjectives. God, I was such the epitome of teenage girl. Sucks. It's weird that my handwriting was so much better when I was younger. Isn't that supposed to be reversed? Oh, and note this: "Aiichiwawah!" I wanted my journal to experience that sound.

Does anyone else have a problem with completing tasks?

It's weird that certain things bring us such satisfaction. We can't uphold our marital vows, but we can surely gain some frightening momentum for our worst and smallest habits.

My written journal is leagues more valuable to me than this thing. I don't like that this entry is such a journal entry. Sorry about that, by the way. I'm trying to remedy it, but I'm falling pretty quickly and steeply here. Whatever. Sometimes I wonder if I'm holding myself back too much, and then I remember some things that I promised this Guy and next I wonder if it's brainwashing.

It's not.

p

r

o c

e

ss

ed

the

x-----------------------------------------------------

Questions seem to arise like brain cells exist and we're dancing together as if we weren't locked between legs and arms and necks, and the blood flow shortens - comparable to the restriction of your tonsils when a smooth and sour toxin sludges down your esophagus, funny plays, funny plays, experimental plays, dramas and dramas - comparable to nose bleeds, insistent twitching of the eyes, and the way that they don't notice for once that small defect that you really don't care so much yourself about, And then 'tis steered directly under a bridge: very, very small, short, round - round? rounded, and soft - soft? malleable; as malleable as the mind of the creator and as fixed as the mind of the Creator.