Who (a poem)

I stepped onto a new path,
giving up old dreams and past hopes,
knowing where I had been,
and looking to a brighter day.
I had broken up with who I used to be,
said I'm moving on, growing up, I'm free.
But every time I turned around, she was there again.
I kept changing, I kept moving.
Still she haunted me, and I stalked her.
I clung to memories of who I was,
jealousy lingering over what she had.
But she was rash yet fearful,
a child trying to be an adult,
demanding independence yet devotion.
She thought she had it all,
and so was terrified of losing a fraction of it.
When it was ripped from us,
she grew angry and even more fearful,
but I reached up,
reached out for the guiding hand of God.
When she screamed, I cried,
clinging to the faithful Most High.
And as my renewed friendship with God grew stronger,
I sought to fight against that other me.
But it only made a mess.
So I started over,
gave everything up.
And a new me stepped into the light.
I realized that there will always be a new me and an old me.
So I must seek to be better than the last.
Generations racing through a single life,
A fluid soul driving the mind insane,
Moving and changing until the end of days.
Who will I be before I grow old,
when the mind will break down,
unable to even struggle to catch up?
Who will I be when I die?
Who will take my place when the King returns?
What kind of a person will I be when the people rise?
I pray that I will mirror my Savior:
Faithfulness incarnate.
Joy complete.
Naturalized self-control.
Peace perfected.
Patience fulfilled.
Faultless kindness.
Conclusive goodness.
Wise gentleness.
Love ultimate, pure, infinite.
Tomorrow I will be new again.
So I ask of me:
Not who am I,
but who will I be?

A Million Things

There are a million things I would say to you.
A million little sayings,
a million heart-to-hearts,
a million tears,
a million shared laughs,
a million songs,
a million dances,
a million adventures,
a million moments of silence.
So much I would say,
but you're never around for me to say it all.
So much I want to do with you,
but there is never enough time.
Oh my friend,
I wish eternity were here.
I long for the day we can walk hand in hand
on the streets of gold.
But still I walk here,
still needing to fulfill my purpose.
But the pain here won't leave me be.
A million pins,
a million swords,
a million icicles,
a million dark fires,
a million shadows,
a million fights,
a million lies,
a million sins.
So much that I hide,
glad you're never around to know it all.
So much of me you would see,
yet thankfully wrapped up in your own life to be blind to me.
Oh my friend,
I wish eternity were here.
If only the day would come where all what's wrong melts away
in the light of the life perfected.
So that I would be the best me,
for you, for all.
One day, one day yet,
I may say the million things.
Or be rid of them at last.
I pray that God will grant me the courage,
and a way,
to share a million things.

Memories

Inside this head there is a house that represents my life.
Memories decorate the walls,
draped across windows and along the ceiling.
Crystallized moments dangle like dewdrops on spiderweb,
creating a thousand chandeliers.
Every room has a different story,
some so bright and colorful, a child's imaginings,
some arranged and adorned for company,
but others shrouded in sheer greys and charred blacks,
hiding the shredded and stained walls underneath.
The outside and the main rooms are carefully preserved,
groomed and manicured, on presentation for all.
The owner of the house cares for her guests.
But travel further in and know more truth.
The back rooms, though still bright,
are messy and memories are scattered about like toys,
and trophy moments kept high as if to keep a child from taking them.
But the locked basement, poorly lit,
whispers of things desired to be forgotten.
Ghosts float through the interior, muttering,
Disturbing the strung crystalline memories,
Making them flash moments into the dark spaces.
Fear, Anger, and Pain had taken residence long ago,
their destructive evidence left everywhere downstairs.
This portion of the house is kept hidden away,
locked up, even the owner rarely dares to trespass.
What would cause such a vast difference from room to room?
Treachery and grief were coupled with joy and light, she answers quietly.
My childhood was good and beautiful,
yet my years of growth were torture.
Though I still lived for the most part in innocent youth,
it was this naivete that led to the first betrayal,
shattered my trust and love.
And it happened over and over again.
My young adult life was little better.
I had many good moments, precious to me,
but I lost so much and so there is grief.
Yet still I care for my fellow humans,
so I seek that which can be hospitable for them,
welcome them in and protect and nurture those who come to me.
But all these memories that are mine have shaped me.
Touch the crystals, see my life.
Some moments of my life, some people are so amazing
that I try to hold them close,
and when it fades and becomes a memory,
I fight it, wanting to live in it forever.
But forever is not here yet,
so all I have are my memories.
This is my house, this is my life.
There is much wrong with it, much good in it.
It is painful every time the Builder comes to renovate,
but each time is good for there is one less room with darkness.
One day I will tread through the house of my life,
the shadows and fear and pain gone forever,
all memory traded for perfection.
But for now, there is life on this world,
and we collect moments to decorate our houses.