Today,
the tree watches sadly,
a hundred years
of what we might have become.
Every day he sighs,
while roots struggle
through cracks in the pavement.
Each day is a torment
that nobody hears,
lost in sirens and
unearthly noise.
Each day they all smile,
trapped behind bars
in a fortress of stone
and of fear.
The city teems every night
in unholy light
and traffic throbs
in the veins of progress.
One day,
the volcano may erupt,
Hello,
I am....Hmm....Who am I? Am I, the am I used to be, or am I the am, I am now? Who knows? I won't go on forever about me, telling everything, my life isn't done yet; and who wants a cliffhanger?
Upon this rock
The media is shocked
The priesthood has been mocked
The shepherds have lost their flock
And my little one are you scandalized?
We must all realize
It has always been this way
Remeber that fateful day
When Jesus was betrayed?
Judas sold our Lord for thirty pieces
As he knelt at gethsemani
Peter denied three times
As the cross was being carried
The lamb was led to the slaughter
They wanted no part in being a martyr
Warming himself by the fire
Trying to give back the silver
I need to breathe,
outside there's a nice breeze.
Why do I feel this way?
Moment after moment,day after day.
I need a place to be free,
a place to just be me.
A fresh breath of air,
like a newborn mare.
In my world everything is fair,
everyone can get a breath of air.
Looking for someone to help me out of this
place.
Seeking my Father's face.
I love my Lord because he's always there,
and never loos upon me with an evil stare.
He's always so fair,
he can give me a breath of fresh air.
She closes the door and locks it, still feeling the pain tearing her heart. She walks down the street to a store, but doesn’t care about anything she does. She enters and looks around, her eyes filling with tears as she spies a teddy bear, or a frilly dress. Yet no one notices.
She picks out a few insignificant items and get in line. Behind her is a church-going woman, busy reading the headings off magazines. Her hands tremble as she lays down her purchases and gets out her money. Yet no one notices.
They are young , they are old,
the words of love from their parents were kept untold.
Orphens left unlove on the door step of the orphenage,
poor and sad they have to stay in bed with their rice porrage.
Oh so cute you say,
but gasp when hearing the price to pay.
When you turn to leave the laughs and smiles turn into a mournful cry,
you tear your eyes away you do so want to cry from the inside.
Forget about your broken heart,
No one can be a poet just because they want to be. To write poetry, just like all the other arts, you have to be meant to--that is, God has to want you to. No one can write poetry--real poetry, mind, that's true and good and at least halfway deserving of the word "beautiful"--without God putting it in them; without Him speaking into their souls every single word. I know by experience that it is the same way with writing books. Every character, every conversation, every circumstance is inspired by God's voice.
It is the middle of the night, and once again I lay here in bed, awake, thinking of her. Once again she consumes my mind. I cannot rest. I cannot get away. She may be miles away, but still I feel her presence. It is like she is always with me. Like she never leaves.