Now I lay me down to sleep..

As I urged my daughter to say her prayers last night, I began to think about my own prayer.. or lack of praying.. and my stream of consciousness began to flow like dirty orange iron water ... the bitter truth began to resonate with me.. and it hurt...  it hurt like hell...


Why is it so hard to be a Christian.. ? Why do I treat God like a First Aid box that hides beneath my bathroom sink and is only pulled out during an Emergency?  Why can I read my romance novels yet find no time to cleanse myself with God's amazing word... ?Why can I hit every ball game but not every service..? Why can I listen to trash on the radio but not the music that can uplift my soul? Why do I doubt? Why do I even questions existence?  Why do I place God on the back burner until I become hungry for something more than sin for simply a season.. ? Why do I  stay luke warm.. .? Why don't I change and be on fire...? Why am I afraid to cross the line...? Why cant I pick up the cross and follow him..? Why must I drop it down and then pick it up at my connivence..? Why do I forget to pray ..? He doesn't forget to let me breathe.. exist- fill my life full of blessings .. yet I forget him .. he forgives me and I forget him..

Food for thought .. or more like food poisoning .. Have a Happy Sunday

My friend Erica...

Soft warm grey box shimmers
       cold stiff limbs tucked away inside
                    left to dry lifeless like a prune.

No tears in her eyes they fall upon my cheeks instead
    salty lips reach for an unreachable hand
                 painted on peach color cheek bones.

Glass shell covers her- SnowWhite- preserved for greatness
          packaged -on her way to heaven
                         without a return address.

The price of the stamp
          Her LIFE.

-In memory of Erica Brown
                            

Delighting Myself Through a Draft ..

Sample drafts of my writing from the conference... 

*How I managed to graduate from MSU without having the pleasure of being in the presence of Eklund's brilliance I will never understand.. All English Majors should be REQUIRED to take his class.. 

What you are about to read is what I consider and refer to as"Word Vomit"- I stole this phrase from my brilliant colleague and friend- Mandy..I will search writing to find the diamonds that sporadically appear  to create poetry or other types of writing... 

MY.....

My love pours from the pen 

leaking onto the paper creating my perfect place. 

My fear dreams the unthinkable dream 

as it drinks the bittersweet cocktail we call life.

My rage consumes  my vessel, stealing away my soulful inner child. 

My sorrow told me NO. 

My grief sang a song of innocence that whispered out the stained glassed window into the wind

as it howled and echoed into the night. 

My beauty pours from fake facades and grey covered eyes. 

My love lingers in scents, silence and the taste of my neck. 

My heart desires to touch you, yet my mind begs me to refrain. 

I turn my cheek and expose myself, bare-desolate alone

touch me, taste me and tantalize me.

My sympathy compels me to do wrong. 

I'm drowning in shame that swallows me whole..

My faults become translucent to the world.

My loneliness steals my secrets from my mind ..trying to find a friend.

My dreams play tricks, my illusions find flaws.

Words and ideas can change the world...-Dead Poets Society

After returning home from my "first ever writing conference" as a young professional I have come to several conclusions....

1. I want to quit my job and become a professional writer.
2. I met a young lady who inspired me to not only be a better teacher, but to truly grab a hold of life so tightly... that your fingers begin to bleed.
3. George Eklund is the bomb....