Good God

I used to have a lot of worlds.

But, one by one,

They all started dying.

I guess I'm not a very good god

After all.


This poem came together in about ten seconds sometime during my Junior year of highschool, my thoughts being something like this:
There are lots of things that we, as humans, try to create. Sometimes they're good, and sometimes we're proud of them. But they don't always last. Situations and relationships fall apart and there's nothing we can do to fix them. We are terrible, selfish gods.
Thank God that we aren't the real God.

It Began As Nothing.

This poem is one that I wrote last fall as a contribution to "The Scariest Thing In The Dark" EP, which is a collection of spooky stories and songs put together by my brothers and sisters and the band Insomniac Folklore. (It's been described as the most terrifying children's album ever!) The full EP can be listened to and downloaded here.


It began as Nothing
Or, rather, a pile of Nothings
That used to be Somethings

A pile of scraps

Too worn and too mismatched to be used for much
They sat, unnoticed and forgotten

'Til, one day, in a fit of inspiration,
You took the Nothings
And made them Something.

You took your thread and your needles and set to work

You created it.

You gave it a heart
You gave it two eyes
You gave it sharp teeth

And,

Whether by accident,
Or knowingly,

You gave it life.

You sat it on a shelf
And left it to be

But,

When you turned out the lights
Closed the door
Climbed under the covers

It
     climbed  
                     down.

Not Waving but Drowning

One of my favorite poems, by a woman named Stevie Smith.

Nobody heard him, the dead man,   

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought   

And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he’s dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,   

They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always   

(Still the dead one lay moaning)   

I was much too far out all my life   

And not waving but drowning.

 

 

All Glory to God

From a collection of poems and prayers titled Interobang, by Norman Habel.

If I can't be honest with you, Lord

I can't be honest with anyone.

You are the only person I know

Who can take it

no matter what I say

People are offended if I'm honest.

They want to hear nice things

Sweet words of happiness

Gentle hymns to a gentle God

Smiling somewhere

on a red velvet throne

Well I'm sick of being phony

and I don't like to act

as if there's nothing wrong

with me

or my friends

or the world

or you

Sometimes I want to scream at you

and let it out

I have a million

Unanswered prayers

stuck in my craw

I want you to listen

when I yell at the sky

Pound my pillow

kick the ground

throw stones at the stars

slam doors

or swear at the world

Perhaps that's not giving

all glory to God

as others do

with folded hands and frozen face

but for me it means

I'm paying you

the highest respect there is.

It means I trust you with the truth-

all the truth.

Alive, Almost

A poem I wrote this summer. Yay, depression!

I'm alive

In some strange sense of the word

Meaning that my self-destructive tendencies haven't quite overpowered

The grace of my God

I'm sick

And have been for a while now

Choking and unable to breathe. Adding to the misery

While a small voice in my head whispers that this is just what I deserve

After all,

I'm broken

Beyond repair

A mess of plans gone wrong and a disaster waiting to happen

I'm trapped

As the things I loved and the things I wished for and dreamed of came within my grasp

And then quietly slipped away.

All the while,

I'm struggling

To put aside these thoughts

Of glittering knives and speeding cars and venomous snakes

Whispering to me of easy ends

I'm helpless

Watching the people I love cry from things I have said

and being completely unable to fix it.

Unable to make them understand

I'm trying

My hardest to remember that even in this nightmare, even when it seems that all is lost and the daylight will never come

My God is in control.

I'm repeating

To myself what I'm trying to see as true:

This will not destroy me, He has not forgotten me, and

In spite of me,

All will be well again.