Hang on.

Just hang on
Hang on, you know
Until the day is bright and it's all better

Hang on
Just hang on, you know
Until the place where you can remember to think, to feel

The place where it can be different
The place where hope is real

And colors aren't in danger of losing luster
And shapes aren't in danger of losing form
And songs aren't in danger of falling flat
And rhymes aren't in danger of dying young.

Hang on
Just hang on
Because Jesus is there
Waiting to make it all new
Wanting to make it all new
For those who ride hope to tomorrow
And just hang on
To Him.

Maybe Tonight

So maybe tonight I need baseball
Why does that feel so wrong?
Maybe tonight I need singing
And someone to help write the song.
Maybe tonight I need solace
Someone else for once to be strong
Maybe tonight I need color
To tell me it won't be long.

Pictures On My Wall

Written when I was 17, but ever relevant.

Pictures on my wall, wondering when I’ll fall.
’Cause I’m in the middle of a crumbling crowd of dreams.
Is it who I am? Or what I do?
Still I wonder what I’ve done to get no love from you.

Is this selfish pride? Am I messed up inside?
Is everything I thought to be true just knifing me in the back?
“No,” I say today. “It cannot be this way.”
I know the Truth; It set me free — so why am I wandering?

Lord, take my hand — please comfort me.
I know that I feel lost, but Your face I want to see.
If rejected by man, much more above —
I don’t need to fill up with this world’s worthless love.

Don’t let me lose my faith; please take away my pride.
I know that I’m human, but I’m not lost inside.

We all want to be pursued.

We all want to be pursued
To know we're not meant to drift away
We all want to be pursued
To know living isn't waiting out the day

We all want someone to engage
To leave the respectful distance behind
We want the giant silence
To have something real take over our mind

We all want to be pursued
To have someone find us, catch and hold us close
We all want to be pursued
To know that to someone, hope will matter most.

When I Become Me

Who will I become?
What parts of me are out there, waiting to be formed from?
Against which colors will the new me be sketched?
Into what saga will the patterns of life be etched?
Who will I become?

What will I be?
What rumblings of something greater will explode into me?
When the water pulls back, the dirt shakes off at last
What parts of personality will emerge from a shaping past?
What will I be?

Whose hole will I fill?
When I am finally me, who will catch me in the wishes of their will?
As the rough edges give way
To a more beautiful polished way
Whose hole will I fill?

How will my heart look, complete?
How will I shine when it's no longer wonder, wish, repeat?
The focus now is on the fire, the ripping change and die
But I prefer the light of morning, the no more question why.
How will my heart look, complete?
When I become me.

When you return to righting

I never want to be one of those people who vomits life into a blog, or who shares too many details, or who talks because they have nothing better to do.

I don't even want to be one of those people remembered for posterity. Destroy your photos; let my words catch the wind. I'm far more interested these days in making life better for the people around me, and I increasingly find less time to write when trying to do that. (And often failing.)

So, why write again? Well, if this be a return to writing, let's consider it also a return to righting — an attempt at doing right the best I can, in hopes that one of these days real good and real righteousness will show up. (Psalm 37.)

So, I will write, and much of it will be crap. Some won't make sense. Much may mislead. But I'll be writing, and maybe some of it will stick, and maybe some of it will help.

Because, the more I'm convinced I've got nothing to give, I always have these wily words going through my head. And so, confusing God of this world, Who seems to relish dropping me in situations where I do not fit and do not find any bit of me in strength, I will write the words You have insisted stay in my head. As all else fails me, the words remain, and so I right the best I can.

This post is one at least I'll look back on with regret: Too emotional, right? And so it begins. I am an emotional being, and I was born to an age where my friends are blessed that I can dump the musings into a blog that no one will read rather than on their ears.

A drowning poet is all I've ever had.

The Girl in the Picture's a Blonde

A simple melody
Reminds me of what it's like
For me to be me (for me to be me).

The girl in the picture's a blonde
It's got to be that way 'cause I'm,
I'm not very strong.

I had a fight tonight
With the only One that I've
That I've ever loved.

He forgives and forgets I know
But I'm so tired of oh,
Of oh being so.

More tears tomorrow I'm sure
But the Son will come, will come
Will come and bring more.

The girl in the picture's a blonde
But I'm not afraid
'Cause I won't stay long.
I won't stay long.

7.24

Could you come? Could you come and color my world?
Would the shades be bright enough to change it all, even for a picky girl?
If we hang the simple sayings, the clippings, and the hues
Will it change the space enough to chase away my blues?
Could you come? Could you come and color my world?

To: The King of Pop

Michael Jackson was before my time, but lest I miss the boat completely, I checked out some of his stuff on YouTube tonight. After watching him own the stage, and listening to a little Billie Jean, these words came out.

I mean no harm, and excuse the juvenile obviousness.

To: The King of Pop
(She says I am the one)
(She says I am the one)

You were standing on the top of Babel
Face pointing up toward the sky
A fedora tipped on your pointed visage
Millions to turn you to white
You had made this screaming tower
With the skills of your gloved hand
A Ferris wheel, a sequined jacket
Glittered full in Neverland

(She says I am the one)
(She says I am the one)

But even now at the top of the worship
The tallest tower is not so high
They cheer and writhe, they crow and love you
They wither yet, you sink and die
For up you go, on the steepest Babel
With sound-strung walls, with room to fly
But even when you stretch the farthest
Your well-built Babel can't touch the sky

(She says I am the one)
(She says I am the one)

(Maybe you're not the one.)


Michael Jackson does the moonwalk
And another version...hmm