Friday, June 26, 2009


Let's discuss a trough of torment
that seems to have crept up on me
I've found that there's nothing unique to say
My lips no longer speak
I'm nothing too profound, new,
locked in a room
without a clear lit view
And the door will open ever so slightly
To shed a sliver of light
Where not a voice is heard
from Him on the other side
He just opens it to let me know
That, yes, indeed He's still here
Then gently closes it
after I ask for ears to hear.

In this room you cannot breathe right
You cannot see clearly
and you cannot find life
In this room are familiar woes
from rooms you've seen before,
but in this room
I've found that in these things I'm bored
I used to spend time in here with Him
all the time
And now He's left, turned of the lights,
And my soul is deaf, dumb and blind
I get no satisfaction from the things of old:
Research, writing, reading, music, art...
Anything at all.
So I sit waiting for Him to open the door
Hoping, this time, for more

Speculations arise,
Thoughts afloat,
with a weight at my feet
I'm at the bottom of sorrow

Know that I'm not depressed,
but saddened by this loss,
Yes, I'm wearing myself ugly
like torn sackcloth.

Comparisons belittle,
judgments condemn,
cursing myself deep
I'm behind the witness stand

Know that I think I'm special,
but hate myself for it
Yes, I'm wearing myself ugly
like torn sackcloth.

I'm rising my esteem
from the boiling waters
of my mind
My heart is left out
and this leaves me blind

If I can't be good
I won't be bad.
If I can't be either
then surely I'm mad.

In this room, I say, are demons of old
Who mock my status quo

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