Who has stolen my heart

i know a painter
who loves slow sunrises in winter
and white in darkness
takes blue and reflects it on sea and sky
he makes it work

i know a singer
who gets the universe to sing along
gets thunderclaps as percussion and angels' wings
as harmony
sings the wild wind to stillness

i know a dancer
who has stepped on sea, sky, and fire
zeal uncontainable as spring rain,
rhythm unpredictable

i know a prince
who doesn't have a white horse,
but a crown of thorns
traded royalty for savagery, cause
he fell in love with those on death row
married us into the throneroom

i know a warrior
who makes darkness flee at the whim of his presence
stared death in the eye and swallowed the grave,
for me
bled profusely, bore scars
for my ransom, defeated the entire army of hell with a lover's heart

i know a father
who watched his own son die,
to hold prodigals as close as his very own
who has my name graven on his hands and heart,
and will never leave me.

i know a lover
whose felt every bruise and cut and breaking
of this heart, waited for me to
return from prostituting myself, only to
bandage my wounds, and tell me that i am beautiful
and he is faithful to me

I know Jesus of Nazareth,
and he has stolen my heart.

For a stranger.

so i have an essay due at 5 pm and i just pulled an all-nighter and i only have the intro but...

this was written while i was listening to matt gilman- closer
and thinking of a certain stranger i met the other day.



---

you have a place for him
that only your eyes have seen,
and his heart could contain

there, the flowers pour fragrances nostalgic
of your memories together
he begins to sing the song for the first time,
the one you've put in his heart all his life, that he could only hear
in his dreams

his name has been graven on your hands since the start,
his name has been written on your heart

though he doesn't know now
the way you see him,
the way you hold him,
the way you love him

you will fight for the one that has strayed from the 99.

he is bruised from the inside out,
with a weapon for a heart because
bombs have been raining down
for as long as he has known
limping with every step for the silver lodged in his knee
and memories that burn a little deeper
he spits at the mention of your name

but you have conquered death and purchased life
to fix his broken heart with your hands
and live inside the coma, breathing mercy into crumbling corners
pouring love into the cracks, til your tears are running too

you love him.




the apple of your eye,
the fire in your heart,



the son whom you made to be free, free, free.

thoughts

staring into white-washed walls as if they'd
burst into design at any moment,
flares of orange and tattoo parlor lines
sprawling the expanse,
painting roman cathedrals,
reverse formulas
and old records on the blank canvas

staring into days when clouds swallow the sky
or nights when computers hum louder than crickets can sing
into ceilings with bumps like dull icicles
crosswalks that feel too wide, and white lies
that lay quiet on the floor somewhere

white walls illustrating
ocean hugging sand, and music that flows through veins
acrobats dancing in air effortlessly,
pieces of advice in time-machines.

but they don't burst into color,
spill, swirl or sweep the corners
into something artistic.



white-washed walls still the same,
still white,
painting over
your company.

between breaths

one look and you pin me to the wall
fingers fire and ice
please, don't be cruel.

and not to be crude,
but there are days
i shoot up your beats
into these veins, and the notes speak
to every signal in my body.

one touch, to close eyes for hours
skin like desert drinking in a storm-
what is wine.

the way you weave words,
two like a sling stone to goliath, three to make soul pound against body.
colors flung on blank canvas,
wild and beautiful, you hide it.




and what does zealous sea say to sand, inviting but never able
to keep? salt lingering as the waters retreat



God, teach me to swim.





she'll have a palette to match
a night sky filled with constellations in conversation

Childhood

unwrapping presents, saturday morning cartoons, ice cream trucks
poptarts, transformers, barbie dolls
handball, dodgeball, monkey bars
nintendo 64 and playstation

the troops and send them out,
if they try and run shoot them down

hurry, crouch down! why did you pick the piano as a hiding spot he's going to count to twenty any minute

we spent was either fighting, training, getting beat or getting raped,
any of the soldiers could use us as property and as soon as they saw breasts developing on the girls they
would force us to be slaves, and kill us if we disobey

me again and i will ground you for a week! that means no games, no online chatting, and definitely
no going out i can't believe you would lie

close to the ground, brother, the bush will hide us just don't make a sound

out the word sis! it's not that difficult, come on, li-ber-ty

seemed so far away when your eyes adjusted to the violence and spontaneous
deaths of those around you, like the weapon in your hands became your heartbeat
and bullets the only solution

A is that you flirt and try to get his attention and make it obvious you want to go to the dance with him,
solution B let your other friends drop hints so

i couldn't run away because i was so filled with fear, i saw them kill my father in front of my very eyes
and rape my sister and tell me from now on i was a soldier

boy up in this oh, watch me crank it watch me roll

watch me, hear me, save me from this war,
because i'm 6 and there's weights in my soul that i can't understand,
why i am being forced to dig up chips and kill my friends
and see bones and flesh hear bombs and screams
falling from the sky like rain i used to dance in

we see you, we hear you, and dear child we will free you.

Princess

Darra

I stand with your story clenched in my fist but no sound comes out

Darra,

I will sit down in a few minutes and the music will play again.

Darra,

I raise my voice in the ears of these people but you cannot hear me

because you are screaming into walls that are carved by your fingernails
muffling the sounds of 20 rupees,
another one, who bought the right to
rip open your wounds, for the 100th time
so the assembly line starts and first
he disassembles your heart
like clothes don't belong on an object,
and the objective is pleasure and tools work best
when they are deaf, mute, and blind
so this man doesn't see your eyes,
when you are pleading him to stop,
his hands melding obscenities into your flesh
with every emotionless remark
as if he could do this forever, not knowing your name,
or the faintest taste of shame
every touch stealing something from the treasure box in your soul,
that you've stored since your first breath,
sometimes you wonder if there is anything left.

and every day after the 8, 10, 12 hour shifts you try to gather the pieces
for tomorrow,
because to your owners one shower makes
everything clean
but what is water and soap rushing down your skin
when the lusts of a thousand men devour, damage, desecrate you from within
and what is time when every second is measured in
bruises, thrusts, and clients? I am so sorry,
Darra,
because I thought miles could excuse me from action

Darra,

you are not a commodity
even though you are locked from within a community that puts a price
on your neck, and traded your thoughts for function
your family for foreigners,
and your lover for murderers.

Darra,
you've traced those peeling walls with hands that have lost all sense
of touch,
heart only strong enough to contain flickers of hope,
but i believe there's a heart on fire out there to ignite your soul once more,
that where walls are traced by pencil marks
the bold can be found, hiding behind graphic tee shirts and loud headphones
told that injustice will just persist, that our lives are worth more than the risk
of turning down the music to hear the orphan cry,
or the beggar sing, that our lives are worth more than the time to bring a child back to life, or to restore the right of privacy to those living on their knees.

Darra,
you are more than a statistic or a tragedy, but you breathe
you feel, your heart beats while i read,
and you have stories and dreams and a history

Darra, could I confess of your beauty that even women freed
sometimes fail to see?
That you are fearfully and wonderfully made, in an image
that make even the richest skies, deepest seas, tallest mountains pale in majesty.
You wear a crown of thorns and chains that weigh you to breaking,
but no rapist can steal away your treasure in jars of clay,
make a mark upon a slate that has been washed as white as snow,
drown out the sound of symphonies that have been sung over you
by the Ancient of Days, promises of old
Darra,
you see your worth ripped out of your soul, thrown on the ground
and trampled by the intruder's smile
but neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons,
neither the present nor the future, nor any powers,
neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation,
can take His love away from you.
i refuse to blame sovereignty for the crimes of humanity
cause he's given us hands and feet and a sense of justice to even question his divinity so i believe that he always has, and always is, and always will be on our side, the question is will we arise, and fight?
for once upon a day prostitutes were restored their dignity by eyes that loved enough to give beauty for ashes, life for death,
touched by hands that did not bruise a reed, if but to have a tear wiped away
once upon a day the rocks shook and the mountains split,
and the divide was bridged and
now by his wounds,
we are healed.

Darra your name in Hebrew means princess,
and though we have but scraps of armor,
the night will soon be shining,
for light seeps through even the smallest of crevices,

Darra

I stand with your story clenched in my fist and others stop to listen

Darra,

I will sit down in a few minutes and the music will be put on pause.

Darra,

we are coming for you.

3:47 am

you lay a finger on a star
and the universe spins
overdosing in glory,

that flows from the heights of heaven to the floors of the oceans
swirling and dancing and mixing and lifting
these pieces of humanity

Glory
when i swallow these divine melodies, and feel hope birth in me
see it light up the seven skies, as the earth cradles my knees

Glory
when i read your letters, and every word flutters against my soul
like something dying to get out, and my breath and tears are the soundtrack carrying me through every page