It’s times like these that I used to be a lot closer to God. Well, I’ve got friends that don’t know him at all and when I miss him, well it’s a shame that they don’t know what they’re missing. This Will Destroy You is my writing music, and their progression makes me feel like I’m progressing through (or past) all of the empty inspiration and into something that might last – like letters to lovers could transcend their pages and cut deep into the heart of the receiver. Well I read a love letter labeled “Emotion” signed, “With Hate, love, The Deceiver.” And frankly, I couldn’t love him more!
Well I don’t know what’s in store for us but I know that not every glorious answer to prayer is from God, and some of these voices are not him speaking at all, but it’s so simple to convince yourself that it’s the Spirit talking to you (like each convenience is a virtue)… O! If practice makes perfect then I am going to pretend my way into feeling until I finally love my neighbor! But son, you are not writing out a single thing that is actually close to your heart, and I know the music tugs at its strings, but it hasn’t pulled it apart and you’ve been writing for everybody else for so long that you don’t know who you are! Because I swear the only way you find yourself nowadays is in these pages. (I mean, in those days, was in those pages.) I have not written or prayed for days and days and days and days and days and days and day AND DAYS AND DAYS AND DAYS AND DAYS AND DAYS!
There is a time for everything that’s under the sun and this one has run its course. I’ve sworn up and down that there is more to pour out but it’s all forced and I don’t know anymore. That sadness became my comfort, and maintaining it became my chore… Well there is a time to weep and there is a time to mourn and there is a time to laugh and it is fighting for it’s place in a time of war! There are still monsters in my closets, Father! (and I can feel the shadow people hiding in the hallways). Are they ever going to stop sneaking up behind me? Is anybody else my age still afraid of a black night, and do you run in the dark in a panic for the light?
Well, it’s the sunken, disappointed, creeping-through-my-stomach-in-the-morning rise and fall of lungs on the verge of collapse keeping me from talking to God. It’s the sunken, swollen eyelids making love to all things permissible but proven hardly profitable at all. It’s the walls, thick as paper. I mean, thin as paper. I mean, thick or thin as paper as thick or thin as the plaid pajama-bottoms patiently passing as a passive activist for abstinence in-between thick skin… IT’S THE WALLS! fragile as paper that I can’t feel you through! It’s all vanity and vapor that I cater to my emotions because I am the most important person in my universe. Interlocking fingers with both God and Satan, so that after I’ve made love to the devil, I can stay on my knees and start praying.
There is a time for everything that’s stuck under the sun but you’ve been stuck in one for years now, and it’s time to move on. If I have truly found a new beginning, then why am I so hell-bent on living in the past? There is a difference between what you know, and what you practice, and I’ve had to practice purging my practices because I know I’ve heard promises of a life that gets past this: What I want to do, I don’t, and what I don’t, I do and I’ve been practicing depravity rather than knowing you. God! If your mercies are new every morning, then all of this can’t be grasping after the wind and I’ve seen vanity reach out its sweet hand to me and I’ve built my “firm footing” on it’s fragile whims. OH!!! There is a time to keep and a time to heal (and I am numb cuddling with these werewolves) and I know that there has got to be a time to feel. And the time is long past to cast away these stones:
I’m still broken, but I know you can rebuild these bones. I keep looking back before I go forward, but I just want to set my sights on home. I’ve got no Plan B. I’m just running for home. I’m still dragging, but I just want to make it home.
ALL OF THIS. ilovelevithepoet