Tag Archives: Individuality

Kitten In A Tree


Tired of drowning in things to be done,

Tired of fighting the battles I’ve [not] won.

While victory lies on the table of contemplation,

And my flaws grow in the soil of frustration,

Am I overcommitted, under acquitted?

Still wrestling pain that I’ve [not] admitted?

Am I working too much, trying to touch,

The glory, the talent of such and such?

Do I need a new fire, a spiritual zeal,

Something to coax my numb senses to feel? 10

Something to bring me down from a tree,

Like the kitten crying, just to be free.

Where are the hands of my Rescuer?

The holes in the hands of my Discover.

I am small enough to fit in His hands,

Large enough to walk with Him on the sands.

Where is He now but a moment away?

A voice away with the sound of “hey”

The voice which knows the length of my day,

Who touches my shoulders and breathes it away. 20

Filling my senses: I’m no longer dead.

When His faithful hand is beneath my head.

Together we recount the ups and downs,

Of a full day, with sights, memories, sounds.

With tears over the unkindness faced,

When I couldn’t cry, but my heart still paced.

Now ocean pieces sting like glass my face,

But cannot stay, for He will yet erase,

And heal their present dwelling place,

Renewing beauty and giving grace. 30

I have a wall of love to run into,

Whenever I have none to hang on to.

For now I will stay in this tree,

With the One who will rescue me.

I am not ready to face them all,

I don’t want to see their faces at all.

They ask for answers, I have none,

They try to make me have some fun,

But forget that I’m not one of them,

That I will never, never be one of them. 40

On a separate note, I was given a gift today,

It was when I heard someone say,

I was not a problem to be fixed,

A wasteland of emotions mixed.

But that life as I knew it was normal,

Problems, pressures, pains were normal.

It was the voice of an angel informal,

A voice pragmatic, sensible, moral.

Which has made me [cry] behind her back,

For the sense and sensibility [I lack.] 50

The encouragement to move on when,

You’ve messed up in front of all of them.

These are the tear which I keep [hidden],

Behind the glass of perfection |forbidden|,

I hear a siren, the glass will -crack-.

But again my Saviour wins it back.

I might be cute, fuzzy, and purring daily,

But I’m wet, shivering, shaking faintly.

Until I’m enclosed within His grasp

Like magic safe within the clasp. 60

Where I release the sounds exiled,

To be within my poetry [silenced.]

Betrayed, portrayed, arrayed,

The words condense on those hands scathed,

The sunlight peeks in through the holes

Of pain, of price for healing souls,

Sometimes I think I’m one of many,

Other times His love says I’m the only,

But I have been healed, am being healed,

And He is my cure thus far concealed. 70

Thou Shalt Never Be Too Serious.

Where Are Your Hands


There’s a thousand feelings to be felt, but I feel nothing, nothing, nothing, that shadowy sensation of nothing. I am composed of a set of clothes which promenade, masquerade a charade to fool the seas of people who claim that this set of clothes is a really strong person. Meanwhile I’m the gypsy begging for someone to please turn down the silence in my head. Let me feel again. Let me cry. Let me laugh. Let me look into Your beautiful face and find feeling there. Don’t be a Prince in shining armor, don’t pull the moon and stars from the sky. Let them fall, and crash in disturbing arcs of destruction. Don’t even change the stark and dreamless horizon. Just keep me company here. Leave the sun in its jealous sky. Leave reality cold and harsh, as long as I can hold Your warm hands. Don’t pretend with me. Just dream with me. I don’t need everything to work out perfectly, but I do need You. I’m living like I’m a voice which says the words I mean, and watches them hopelessly as they fall from the air, devoid of the meaning assigned to them. I’m the paintbrush living in a black and white world, wondering, where are Your hands? When can I do what I’m meant to do? When can I unleash colour on a dull insensate world? When I’m at my lowest, full of internal conflict, the appalling lack of emotion, and complete insensitivity to any touch, I wonder to myself, where are Your hands? When the questions come knocking on my door, who really dreams these days anyhow? Who still feels these days anyhow? What poets are still alive and writing these days? I wonder, where are Your hands? When someone is falling down a cave in a landslide of self-doubt or apprehension, I’m there and my hands are empty, ready. My mind is screaming LET ME! LET ME INTERVENE! My virgin hands are wide open, empty, ready, and where are Your hands? Your hands are reinforcing my own. I’m built to save lives, but not alone. I wasn’t allowed to recently, but that doesn’t stop me. It doesn’t deter me in the slightest manner, instead, it fuels my determination. I know who I am, and even more importantly, I know who I’m going to become. When life is  dripping from someone’s fingertips in red reminders of pain, I want to tell them: Don’t be afraid. Fear just isn’t worth it. People can slip away from your life, tearing a part of you away. I’ve learned how to live 150% more when half of you is torn away. Look inside yourself. Face your weaknesses, but don’t be blind. Inside of you is a hero, a warrior who WILL survive. I know that because it’s something we have in common. Life is silent, musicless, despite my numerous instruments. Where would I be without music? When my fingers on the black and white keys fail to bring back the feeling to my numb composition, where are Your hands? See the pen resting lifeless, drowning in the paper whiteness. Reach down, and save her, give her something to feel. Where are Your hands?