I want to build an army,
and I want to march.
March around the world,
across the seas,
through the cities,
and deserts.
I want to chant.
Chant words of a revolution,
a whisper words of wisdom.
All while surrounding the walls,
and marching so hard,
chanting so loud,
that they will break,
and tumble to the ground.
And after the dust clears,
there will be love,
and peace,
and grace.
All because of our army of justice.
I want to be Joshua.

My worst nightmare
is at a carnival.
In the room filled with mirrors,
that cannot lie to me,
that display the horrors
that are myself
over and over
and over again.
Relentless,
persuasive,
accurate.

Grace is the girl down the street,
who sings,
and smiles,
and laughs.
Grace is also the dancer
who lives in ballet shoes,
and spends hours on end
hurtling through the air
in practice.
But above all,
Grace is like rain
that falls froms the heavens
and splashes us with bits of the
Saviour.
It stirs our souls with powers,
and paints them with forgiveness.
Grace is the life saving
antidote from our sin tainted lives.
Grace calls us from the dark, and leads us to the light.
Grace feeds us, clothes us, and makes us whole.
Grace.

It's funny how
once you enter
a certain state of mind,
that attitude consumes you,
those thought dictate who you are,
and the actions become a necessity.
And it becomes harder,
and harder,
and harder,
to be you again.

I remember the day
when you whispered
"I promise"
as tears stung my cheeks,
and bled onto your hands.
I believed you.
But I didn't
believe myself.

The Great American melting ***
has boiled over
and simmered down.

It's either a fine soufflé,

Or a bowl of Raman noodles.

My restless soul wanders
through the deep fog,
and the night storm,
and the white beaches,
and black cities.
It sprints through
the terror
and blindness
and pain,
in an uneven,
never ceasing,
path of curiosity.