as if i’m perfect 

stalemate has me

here, reading promise 

from old: he brought 

me into a spacious 

place. delighting 

became magnetic 

the moment i heard

him speak, come away

from fame you seek. i

want recognition, as 

everyone else, claiming

a star on earth holds more 

value, than the maker 

places above us–light 

for the dead ringer i may

be. comparisons to other

poets (jane keaton, jane herschfield)  is 

nice, momentary  high, proof i have 

what world  considers paradise: talent 

leading to money. climbing those 

ladders until i forget a mouth spreads 

up,

quicker than a frown of discontent.

“no telling what we could do 

next.” to a room friends sharing 

my beginning success. somewhere
down the line, i’ll adorn a straitjacket 

with a zippered belief: better to 

be an impersonator, forget glory

beneath. one day, i break.

crying the lost hopes in conforming

to my will, make a name for myself.

now, i’m lost inside this bleeding 

remake, waiting for him to say

the word. broke me with silence,

leaving one beat from a heartbreak-

frustrated sigh toward life’s shout 

for beyond our (my) best.


it’s been awhile since I’ve written to an album, and late at night. After a read the verse about God leading David to a “spacious place because he delighted in me,” i turned on Martel and used mostly all of his song titles in this piece.

I’ve never considered myself as trying to someone else. I confess I want to write as some writers do, but being compared to someone well known, I get hungry and forget who i am doing this for. God, not the world.

I’m watching this happen with my art. I opened my own etsy store the other day & since then have been fighting myself on creating to selll, rather than do this out of love.

Writing isn’t fun anymore, it’s a means to cry to God right now. I need an oupouring of his love, something to drown all the voices.

I’ve spent the last year, trying and praying to God he would do something with my writing. 

Please let me win a contest. 

Please let me win this grant. 

Please let me be accepted by this magazine.

Please let me make a living out of this.

Let me show them. Let me show you.

Let me show myself.

All I’ve ever thought in the back of my mind is maybe I’ll be seen. Paid.

That’s been my main focus. I lose myself in daydreams of magazines and all things temporary.

With my art, I don’t want to fall into the same trap. Lose my heart. I love being inspired by nature and God’s word. No one can tell me I’m Picasso.

I still want to learn about it and laugh about what comes out. 

I want to stop trying to be the best.

At everything I love.



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