The Block

It’s not made of glass or wood or stone. It’s not made of substance, but it might as well be. You can’t touch it, but you can surely feel it. It’s a bondage of the worst kind. It’s a confinement within. And it’s all in your head.
 No one but you can see your dilemma. Likewise, no one but you can solve it. It’s not an exertion of flesh and bone, but of intelligence and imagination. The goal: to escape. To escape yourself.
 You struggle against it. You slam your metaphorical body against its walls. You pound your fists and yell to no one in particular. Within the borders of your mind, you pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. Frustrated and displeased, you wonder, there must be a way out.
 It’s difficult to think outside of the box when your box seems to have dead bolted you inside. No windows. No doors. Only the blank, nondescript walls that surround you. So you search. You seek out a flaw. A crack, a small gap, a fissure, anything really. An Achilles heel that would make your cage come crumbling down.
 You chase each and every thought that passes through with unmatched zeal, like following a string through a maze and hoping it ends at the exit; hoping that one common notion could lead to something spectacular. A light, a glimmer of inspiration comes and you race after it, only to come slamming back into that wall. That insufferable wall.
 There must be wonderful things on the other side of your cerebral prison. Beautiful, fantastical concepts just waiting to be grasped. Imaginings that could catapult you into the plot twist of a lifetime. But that wall. That wall that just won’t budge.
 A wall. A box. A cage. Think of it how you will. Maybe it’s a box one minute and a dungeon the next. Maybe it’s a bubble that has wrapped you inside like an embryo and you just can’t pop it. Its form truly doesn’t matter. It’s all the same. It’s an embodiment screaming out what you need most: a breakthrough.


 “Writing about a writer's block is better than not writing at all” – Charles Bukowski, The Last Night of the Earth Poems

Science Fiction

I am no poet,

Nor a great mind,

But allow me to illuminate,

That which science strives to validate.

They call it a theory,

But they teach it as truth,

Yet a theory is defined,

As neither proven nor declined.

It makes sense at first,

Evolution, that is,

But as we dive further into its intricacy,

I can’t help but question its legitimacy.

I won’t try to explain it all,

I have barely scratched the surface myself,

But that’s the problem isn’t it,

From the beginning, something is amiss.

I ask questions,

But the answers are unclear,

Or unsatisfying,

Which only send more inquiries flying.

But you can’t see Evolution,

“Oh, it’s only a theory”,

Yet, when we question it, you overreact,

As if we were doubting fact.

Still they say, “You can’t see God”,

He must not be real,

A creator, a great love, a crucifixion,

Now that, must be fiction.

Knowing this first of all, that scoffers will come in the last days with scoffing, following their own sinful desires. They will say, “Where is the promise of his coming? For ever since the fathers fell asleep, all things are continuing as they were from the beginning of creation.”- 2 Peter 3:3-4 

Whitewashed

Humor me. Solve this riddle:

I come in many shapes and sizes,

Tall or short, skinny or fat,

Memories linger within me,

Beautiful and perfect I may seem, but death swirls inside.

What am I?

            Did you figure it out? Yes? No? Here. Let me give you another hint:

Clean, I may seem,

Decorated and lovely,

There is no speck of dirt nor a spot of grime on me,

And yet,

I stand among the dead.

What am I?

            Better? No?  I will give you one more:

My walls are whitewashed,

I am not alive,

I was never alive,

The bones of the deceased groan within me.

What am I?

            Surely you must know what I speak of now? Whitewashed walls? Beautiful it may seem? Bones of the dead within? Memories linger? A tomb. Yes, so it would seem. But no. That is not the answer. Here is the answer:

You.

          “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of the bones of the dead and everything unclean.” – Matthew 23:27 NIV

Child's Play

Crimson drains from a bottle,

A glass raised to a mother’s lips,

It rushes down her throat like a stream,

She sits to observe a performance.

Beep!

The video camera sounds,

A small face flushes,

A child flutters into her own fantasy.

Chairs shoved aside,

Silly diddies float from his mouth,

A hand offered,

A waltz begun.

1-2-3, 1-2-3,

As the counts go,

Step by step,

Around the room,

To a non-existent melody.

A small voice squeals,

A grandfather’s chuckles escape,

A memory etched in time,

And who is ever the wiser?

In loving memory of my grandfather...

Searching

           There was the world. The world was dark and strange. The people in it were also dark and strange. They ran together like a current. Floating from one idea to the next, from one theory to another. Never staying in one place, on one thought. Always moving. Always searching. Searching. Never finding. Desperately, frantically, hysterically searching.

            Searching, yes, but for what? Truth? No, they did not want truth. They made their own truths. Peace? No, they knew no such thing. Perfection? Perhaps, but doubtful. Acceptance? Unlikely. Such an idea is too primitive. What, then, were they searching for? A question unanswered. No matter who you asked, the answer would always be different. No one was searching for the same thing.

            They all searched. Searched to satisfy their ever-changing, ever-growing desires. Searched to find something, yet not knowing what exactly they were looking for. How peculiar. How curious. How frustrating. Horribly, agonizingly frustrating. To look and never find.

            The world was dark and strange. The people in it were also dark and strange. Most people. Not all. In a dark world, there were specks of light. Few, yes, but bright specks of light. These lights were different. Yes, very different. They did not search. No, never searched.

            How puzzling, for the dark. Imagine knowing only black and white. Living in a world of no color, ever. Never truly seeing brilliance. No yellows or pinks or greens. Only the flat, dull white and obscure, disconsolate black. Now imagine seeing a flower. Not just any flower. A yellow flower: yellow with green leaves and a stem. Different from every other flower you’ve seen. How puzzling. Would you not be perplexed? Bewildered and bemused? Color. Bright color. For the first time, ever.

            Yes, this is what the dark sees in the light. Confused, but enticed. Skeptical, but captivated. The light is different. The light does not search. Why?

            The dark does not understand, and the dark often fears, rejects, and eradicates that which it does not understand. But these lights, these radiant, dazzling specks of light, cannot be snuffed out. These lights shine. These lights are different. They do not search. They illuminate. How disturbing for the dark.

             "You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven." - Matthew 5:14-16 NIV