Welcome to the Stony Place

The Stony Place is directly taken from the parable of the Sower, as told by Jesus. I've found that my heart has always been caught in this state, and I've seldom had a guide to help me navigate it. 

Perhaps your entire life has you residing in such a place and now, only now you're searching for answers. In this "Journal", if you will, I've documented my experiences of pure joy, and of being on the brink of self-destruction, and everything in between so that you may avoid some of the heartache and difficulties that I've experienced, and navigate through what it means to live in this crazy world, or perhaps just have someone to relate to.

These letters will be my internal reelection on life and creativity, and some will also be addressed to the Lord.

They will be unfiltered, and honest.

I will not hold back information to please anyone because well, life doesn't hold back.

End of Me

Ripped and stricken, torn at the seams

Coming undone, nothing is as it seems.
Destroyed inside, without a doubt
This life I'm living will gut me out.

A dead end road, or so it seems.
A roadblock in my heart, my spirit screams!
My flesh cries out, without a doubt
I hate this life that will gut me out.

I wish to explode, from my name, my skin.

Where do I end...Where does God Begin?

Will I die lonely, hated, abandoned?
Without a wife, brother, or friend?

Late Night Hour: Clocks

One clock, Two clocks, Three clocks four
I simply can't stand the ticking anymore.
The hour is late yet the clocks are awake
more so than I, and they've yet to take a break.

I cover my ears in hopes of fading
into a deep tickless sleep which I've been belating.
Debating whether or not it should be allowed
by the clocks that tick so loud and so proud.

I try with my all and I try with my might
but the clock on the wall is not too bright
it will not compromise with my droopy dark eyes
that plead it to stop ticking, it ignores my cries.

So I turn to the clock on the night table beside
the bed where I lay and I try to reside
for the hour is late and the clocks are still awake
yet they show no mercy, it's more than I can take.

I drown out the sound as think I am sick
because I think that  the clocks only tick just for kicks
they sleep during the day but only at night
do they jump to a start and blare at my blight.

So I've come to a conclusion that I should have reached long ago
I've disposed of the clocks, they're buried in the snow
For the hour is late and the clocks are buried deep
Without thinking twice I drift off to sleep.


The Runaway Train Ballad

Everyday I wait for you, standing in the rain
soon enough your train should come, with it should come you.
My coat is drenched, my face is wiped, expressionless and plain.
Now I see, the day is done, oh what am I to do?

Waiting for your train to arrive, maybe it's just late
Every time I stop to think, just how long will I wait?

Day for day I wait again, so many days have come
Thoughts of how you said goodbye, start to flood my mind.
dropping on me like the rain, renders my heart numb.
These fleeting thoughts that drown my mind, how could I be so blind?

Waiting for your train to arrive, maybe it's just late
Every time I stop to think, just how long will I wait?

So here I stand on my own, outside I remain
So solemnly I shake my head, thinking in disdain-
All the lies you fed to me, there's no need to explain-
There are people that can love, but others that just feign.

No longer waiting for your train, I doubt that you are late,
I don't think that you will come, so I'll no longer wait.

Now I walk myself downtown, day is getting old
Never will I listen again, to the things you say.
Drag myself into my house, hiding from the cold
Drop myself into my bed, this is where I stay.

No longer waiting for your train, I know it wasn't late.
I know now you'll never come, so I'll no longer wait.......


I drill my fist through the Earth’s core. My tears can fill
the ocean. My sorrow can make a crowd step off of a building like a
herd of sheep. My happiness will make you explode as your flesh
cannot contain its sunshine. My fatigue can make you drop in the middle of your activities, but my energy will make you think you’re on drugs. My guilt can make you wish you were dead, though my past will make you glad you aren’t. My future will leave you wondering, but I know my God has already written it, and if I can survive, so can you.

Ink Stains on my Destiny

Ink Stains On My Destiny

I've been stained...

It's a permanent stain that can not be washed out.
A stain on my soul, my being, my destiny...

The ink flows from the tip of my pen like a smooth stream of silk from a spider, only, I don't allow it to dangle, but rather I build my fortress on this piece of paper that I call home. My hands are blotched with permanent vivid details, and similes and metaphors line my palms. My fingers are wrapped around my weapon of choice as my wrist plays across my territory creating life and breath with every stroke. It takes not but a second for a character to escape my grasp and stick itself to the land on which I command it, bold and steadfast, fully equipped with a purpose and a history. I was born to give birth, to the very things that will change the course of life.

The alphabet flows across my college rule arranging itself in such a manner that I can not deny the truth that it speaks to me. With such a powerful blow, it is no wonder that words have held such significance throughout history, never fading, and never dissipating from mankind. I am the source, yet I am the instrument all at once. I am humbly a pen to The Author of Perfection who has written the greatest Love story of all. Just as He writes through me I release these truths to the world as my stationary no longer seems to be stationary.

I am stained...

My Soul, my being, my destiny....
It's a stain I don't intend to wash out if ever possible.

I'm stained for a reason...and it's permanent.

Don the Wrecking Ball

Don the wrecking ball of reason.
Telling the difference between my logic and treason.
Knowing the truth of what can't be,
My mind continues reeling.

Take from me these thoughts
Take from me these ways.
Truth traverses through me till the end of my days.

Don the gallows and don the stake.
Selling the difference between my heart and my break.
Showing the truth of what I've done,
My chest continues to ache.

Tear from me these thoughts
Steal from me these ways
I no longer wish to live this way.

So Don the I.V. and don the chair
Though Compelling is the difference you cannot care
It will never matter anyways
So explain it I shan't dare.

Rip from me these thoughts
Gut from me these days
Perfectly proving poverty I'm stricken with my ways.

So don the cross, and don the nails.
Sacrifice my pride and flesh.
Knowing the truth of what Christ's done
I'm taking my last breath.


November 15, 2015

Satisfy my longing soul, O Lord.
Into the blackened and soot filled night.
As ravenous fireflies eat away my faithfulness,
And the fires of trials burn bright. 

My plight...

Burning brighter than the consolation you once gave me. Emanating and radiating from my core where you lay in me begging PLEASE!!! come away from all this...

And just when I thought nothing could call out louder than my suffering you swoop in and rescue me, as if it took nothing... But I know better. Strung up like some puppet, you took the nails that were set to drive through my heart and drove them into hell where they impaled death and it's kingdom, teaching it that YOU. ARE. KING. And IT. IS. DONE.

you see, in my youth I used to believe that you couldn't set me free... That you were some mystical genie that withheld wishes from me because I was simply not good enough to deserve them, as they dangled before me like a carrot on a stick and you called me out like a mule to pursue them. 

But as I grew with age I realized that was just a page in the beautiful life you had planned out before me. Asking me with each day to see what you say about us and how you adore me. This is the part where I fall down... The part where I take off my crown and cast it at your feet, and though I've been beaten, battered, and bruised I rest in knowing that you were raw meat by the time they were through with you. 


So Satisfy my longing soul, O Lord.
Into the blackened and soot filled night.
Despite these ashes burning my eyes
I take the next step into the light... With delight.



My father was once Superman. Now, he is an old, frail failure with regret and shame in his eyes.

I only pray the Aiden doesn't one day see me this same way! But alas, he will, right? What determines a person's worth in another's eyes? Is it their physicality? Is it their wisdom? Is it a combination of the two, and perhaps more?

I wager that it's based upon a perceived notion about one's strengths and weaknesses (both for better and worse) and the shattering of that perception upon actually meeting them. Maybe we're all creating heroes in our mind where there are only flawed humans trying to fit the bill. Perhaps it's our fault. Perhaps it's the fault of our broken fathers and mothers, friends and acquaintances. The broken promises of grandeur that they leave in our wake, or our foolishness to feed into those promises only to be left broken… Again.

Maybe, just maybe we all wear painted masks in agreement. What if we're all working together to create something of a Sistine Chapel out of this life's experiences, in fact, they're actually more of a Picasso. It may lack the form we do desperately desire for it to take, but it still has form and meaning nonetheless. Form indeed, although form we must learn to interpret and decipher as we travel along this life's monorails.

Away From It All

I need to escape it all...to vacate this world and stand on the edge of the atmosphere is to regain understanding of oneself and of creativity. 

I yearn for a reset. To find myself again. To understand this gift of creativity. To rest assured that I am using it and not neglecting it. 

...Life calls me back into the fray. So long, my beautiful moment of soundless solitude.

The Necessary Pursuit

Storytelling… The pursuit of capturing that which cannot be captured, in order to express that which cannot be expressed. How dare I attempt to bottle the essence of emotion like those whom before me could not? Yet, still I try. Rather, I believe expression is a matter of survival, not competition. To refrain would be death in every capacity of the word.


Death is the lack of storytelling. The lack of expression.


Why have words failed us so terribly that we yearn for other avenues to speak? And why do those avenues fail us still? Is there nothing within a man to aide him in the truest and deepest communication of his Soul?


To live is to struggle to express oneself. To die is to stop, and I'd have it no other way.