A Recollection of Chasing Perfection

To be perfect;


having all the required or desirable elements, qualities, or characteristics…


as good as it is possible to be


absolute.


complete.


perfection


every day’s a pursuit of perfection, an idolized timeline that becomes an obsession

When i wake up, I see my reflection, but I hear voices that scream lies and yell rejection

I’m not crazy, my words are a collection, call it hearing voices, I call it an honest cross-section

And this perfection, becomes my projection, how I live my life, it’s a constant inspection

It can’t go away with an explosive ejection, I’m diagnosed with a severe infection

the cure doesn’t come from a needle injection, or from trying harder; that’s a common misconception

a true change starts with a change of direction, not simply just introspection

it’s embracing that love and affection, that’s found when we look a little closer at that Cross section

Tool Belt

He said, “you have tools to toil, my friend. 

Strap on your tool belt, and get to work.

All you need is what you have right now.

Let your foolish mind teach you.

There will be those with a straight shot,

but don’t be afraid to let those bullets fly,

because you are trailblazer, dear one,

and you’ll truly live when you come alive.”

Searching for a Spark

he said put your title down

but I don’t have one to pick up

If it’s not perfect, then I throw it aside

my creativity is consumed by lies

below the fire, sit embers

fuel to the flame

I am looking for tender

in a forest of my own disdain

Creativity

Thursday afternoon, the month is December,

the day we last talked, I can’t quite remember

But now you’re right here, and I’m sitting right across,

I know it’s been a while, but I’m still at a loss.

Cause you and me, or you and I

We’ve had a rough history, and time’s gone by

since we last collaborated, since we last wrote rhymes

and I gave you some excuse, like I don’t have time

The truth is, that I haven’t been quite that honest,

I told you I was done because I was ready for the flawless

I was ready for the perfect, but when my work came out

and it wasn’t Mona Lisa, I just threw it back out

if you’ve ever had doubt, then you know what I mean

when you compare what you see to the size of your dreams

and when it doesn’t add up, well then “screw it, I failed,

cause there’s only one shot, and that ship already sailed”

The plan of an artist, never quite matched my own

and for that simple fact, I sort of left you alone

one, I was scared, two, I felt stuck

I asked, “what for?” and the math didn’t add up

It’s funny, cause each time I tried to leave you be

you showed up somewhere else, through words in poetry,

through music that I heard, through my color TV

You had your eye on me, even amid my debris

Say I’m a leaky boat, and let’s say you’re the sea

once you stop up one hole, another one gets free

and eventually I drown, and I have to agree

that we need each other to live creatively

So there is no plan, and no certain equation

to magically pursue a life that’s lived for creation

Thank you for pursuit, for never giving up on me

because we need each other, creativity.


 

Grace.

(Here we go again)

Up and down, down and up

Round and round, the feeling gets my mind stuck

My brain needs to eat, but only food in my cup, is the

Thoughts being fed from the trash in the dump

Toxic and fuming, make their way through my pores

Soakin’ up my being, wreakin’ up the core

Levi’s been broken, there’s blood on the floor

It’s my hand on the trigger, my prints on the door

“You are lost. You are hopeless, the example to abhor”

I got Satan on my shoulder, tellin’ me I’m done for

Tellin’ me that I’ve ruined any chance to rescore

I’m down in the valley, there’s no rescue in store

And this is constant; it’s been going on a while

My heart waits for the verdict, while my mind’s on trial

The case goes deeper, the evidence laid out

All signs point to me, guilty without a doubt

So I sit and I sulk at my own demise,

The amber sheen of cold blood is stained in my cries

Doubt has done its work, the hammer came down

And in a pool of lies is where I choose to drown.

 

Get up out the water, shake away your youth!

What you need is not works, what you need is the truth

Have you forgotten? Take a look through my eyes

Everyday I see the son, and everyday I see it rise

And everyday I see you, my precious beloved

You are thoroughly accepted, you are beautifully rugged

As a part of the family, you have a place in the tribe

Loved more than you know, let me describe

Now early on, when the world echoed in darkness

I used my hand as a brush, to create like an artist

I sewed together the land, and splashed color on the ground

My creation sang with love, for there is no louder sound

And that love which was proclaimed, still echoes today

Through the planets and birds and the stars I display

Through it you find life, a life in which you reign

You we’re a slave to your flesh, my love broke the chains.

 

My, my, my, Father that you are,

You’re grace is a gift that is never too far

The truth becomes clear when I look by your light

Greater love has no one, then to lay down his life

The truth is, I’m not worthy of these things

Lies of who I am only diminish the King,

As you crafted the heavens, you’re thoughts were on me,

What a gift to know that by faith I will see

It’s gift to be free, through my filth and my greed

You see me as pure, kneel down and wash my feet

These words are an attempt to paint it all out

My God you are good, let this be what I shout

Let this be what I sing, let this be who I become

The son of a King, glory is the beat of my drum

And where that beat goes, I cannot even guess

You’re my Father; in that truth I will rest. 

Keeping Pace with A Restless Mind

So I guess this is how it always starts

I click play on the tube; a somber tune flows through generic wires into my ears

The kick drum kick-starts my stagnant heart and a steady beat begins, this is the start

Ear-drum’s on point now, matching every pound of the sound, my heart collects it’s rhythm,

Like a river, it flows through my veins, makes it’s way to brain; no longer am I the same

The switch has been switched, the light has been lit, my thoughts begin to take shape; in the form of a snare, a steady piano tune and a sultry voice hitting every single note as if it was programmed

But underneath these smooth words lies a tangle of roots, like the rose that pushed up through the concrete;

roots that take root in the fact that I’m not rooted in the mindset of surrendering.

Surrendering my worries, my fears, my questions, my hopes, and my anger to something greater.

[….]

Slowly, bass thumps in my head, and I’m back on my bed, pen in hand, dark strokes on the letterhead.

Jotted down notes that have kept time with the beat, and just like that my thoughts have taken shape.

The moment simply ends, flat-lines and I’m out. Rhythm fades and my heart returns to the norm, yet with the vines still tangled underneath my chest, I am bound to hit repeat. 

No Response.

“Your daughter is dead!”

Your daughter is…dead.”

He just lets me scream. As if what I’m yelling to a blank page

“Do the words I’m saying not register?! I CAN YELL LOUDER!

She is dead.”

But I get no reply. I continue to yell.

It’s a vicious cycle.

Just as my throat cracks, and my voice goes dry, my tears flood it back to life.

And I yell again.

And again.

Over and over and over and over and over.

And over.

Someone woke up this morning, without a daughter.

“AND YOU JUST LET HIM WALK RIGHT IN THERE AND DO THAT!

I do not know why…MY GOD, it is so hard to believe that you are good when life vanishes!”

He continues to receive my tear-drenched, mumbled screams in perfect peace.

Maybe that is why I continue to yell. 

“There are times when the Lord is actually honored and glorified by our anger at Him, in ways that He may not be by an attitude of unruffled ‘trust.’ Job provides a healthy balance to the traditional picture of the bloodless, gutless, cheerfully suffering saint. At the very least, anger means that we are taking God seriously and treating Him as a real person—real enough to arouse our passions. Angry prayer is not to be recommended as a steady diet, perhaps, but it is certainly preferable to lip-service prayer. Doesn’t artificiality in relationships belie a far greater hostility than the honest expression of deep emotion? In the prim and proper prayer lives of many devout folk, a good old-fashioned temper tantrum might be one of the best things that could happen. In the courts of Heaven there is a place for the primal scream.”