On Nathan:

Writing Workshop Project:

Autumn Jade:

Exuberant

Autumnal

Flower

Lover of:

Dogs,

Cheeseburgers with bacon from The Pharmacy,

The brilliant work of E.E. Cummings,

And

Tattoos.

Who Feels:

Out of place

Most of the time,

And too big for her body

All the

Rest

Of the

Time.

Who Needs:

Approval too much,

Second chances too often,

And her father. 

Who Gives:

Too much of herself to easily,

And her heart away

Too quickly.

Who Fears:

That writing will always only be her

“Hobby,”

That the bathroom scale will always be chained around

Her neck,

And that one day she’ll have to leave this magical city to move back

“Home.”

Who would like to see:

The Weeks in concert,

Zach Harrington alive again,

And her Mother learn to love herself.

Resident of:

Nashville Tennessee

With the oily haired,

Nose ring wearing

Leather-backed people,

But always

Native America

At heart,

Where the buffaloes

Forever roam free.

Monroe. 

All The Good Days

"here is the deepest secret that nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)"

-E.E. Cummings

Holy Sonnet 14

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you

As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;

That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend

Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

I, like an usurp'd town to another due,

Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end;

Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,

But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.

Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain,

But am betroth'd unto your enemy;

Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,

Take me to you, imprison me, for I,

Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,

Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

John Donne

As I arise today, may the strength of God pilot me,

the power of God uphold me,

the wisdom of God guide me.

May the eye of God look before me, the ear of God hear me,

the word of God speak for me.

May the hand of God protect me, the way of God lie before me, the shield of God defend me, the host of God save me.

May Christ shield me today.

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,

Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left,

Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit, Christ when I stand,

Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me, Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me, Christ in every eye that sees me, Christ in every ear that hears me.

Amen

St. Patrick

There's No Home For You Here.

"[We as writers] must unyoke our callings from the idea that validation will come through publication. Take my word for it. Publication is not as great as it seems. You know what happens after publication? You get forgotten, and you're back to ground zero. There is no day of the year I feel more obscure than Publication Day. I worked in publishing for years and that is why I am here teaching instead. I got burned out writing to make ends meet because writing for someone else wrung out my creativity. True artists voraciously pursue their passions without worrying about being "seen" by the world that is ever-so eager to steal their innocence." Dr. Jonathan Rogers

At the Corner of Richland, Just Below the Tree

I lay—gaping—as the May sun thrashes my skin beneath the desolation of a clear sky. And there is melancholy in the day-waste: the endless neck-aching hours that I have spent with my back erect, mind braced, chest posed—trying to appear as though I am preoccupied in something else—that I am captivated by my book at hand, or that I’m engulfed in, and enamored by some piece of outstanding poetry.

  I check my watch. 4:25.

 My senses become highly inclined. I hear the dislodging of pebbles fly up from the crystal pavement as the rubber soles of your cockroach shoes tear away at the concrete beneath you.

   Your back is tense.

   I remember a time when you used to walk into a room, and all of your aching, burdened muscles would relax at the touch of my palm. And I would let you unravel me like a spool of thread, and you would sink into my soft spaces, ravish my flesh, and your breath would lay like satin over the surface of my rouge cheeks. Back when I was pomegranate and you were cerulean. Back before I was “awkward.”

   Awkward. That is what you said. Like I was some misplaced stranger causing fray in your linear life. Like my body was some left over piece of ravaged trash that  you’d grown tired of eating out of. Like the coated lining of your soft wet throat was now repulsed the humanity of me.

  And I-the cistern from which you used to drink,

  I-

  The nectar that your body worshipped,

  Am now the

  Barren

  Solitary

  That aches to

  Feel your feet. 

A Picture of What She Told Me About

Lexi is wearing
Mango
And
Ivory.

She decorates her eaves,
Like
A house.

Her skirt and feet are
Earthy denim.

Her evergreen porch
Is hovered
Over by bruised,
And
Scabbed up
Knees.

Her shoots
Are rooted
In her "jellies"
With glitter--
And lemonade
And May.

She started
Dating Colvin

On a Saturday.

He is Marvel comic books,
And
Cafeteria aprons.

He prepares the morning eggs with the
Work of his
Hands.

His hands--
That no one would hold;
That always felt
The stinging lasso
Of
Rejection.

He sits on her porch swing and she
Hums hymns
About God
And evenings
And rising above the

Trenches of
Depression.

They are lavender,
And rouge creaking,
And they are

W h o l e.

We'll be
Stopping in
Tennessee
Soon;

Lord-
Come by
Here.

These Western Hearts
Need a Drink
Soon.

We're worn
Out wanderers

Aching

For 

Food. 

ASM

 Yesterday, I fully encountered Christ in a new and phenomenal way. I'm so grateful for my Keeill friends and coming to Nashville to find The Anchor. My heart is with this mission. I have never been so passionately in love with a group of people in my entire life.
 My church family is home for me. I have made the decision to go to ASM after I graduate. I want it with my whole heart. It all makes sense now. In 2010 I came to Nashville thinking I was being called to Afghanistan. What I did not know, is that I was being called to this. My revelatory moment was when I realized Hana Mott recruited me, and she was passionately in love with The Anchor. She took me to church my first Sunday in Nashville. Josh Stump preached over Ephesians 2 and how we are made new in Christ. I was so moved that I kept coming back. I walked away changed every week.    
 Through a series of events that pulled me out of The Anchor, I lost touch with God. Luckily Morgan lead me to Forward where I met a phenomenal group of people that I fell in love with. But something was still missing. Over the summer I met Nathan-the most phenomenal friend I have ever had. I had been his acquaintance at The Anchor, but we'd never really connected. He found me through my blog and our beautiful friendship started to grow. He had moved to Portland to begin an Anchor Missions church plant, but he said he was coming back to Nashville in the fall. Initially I'd intended to see him in August, but between schedules and honestly a great deal of spiritual warfare and fear--I didn't ever MAKE time to see him.
  When I finally did he invited me to The Keeill, The Anchor's sister church. It was conveniently located across the street at West End Middle. I went, and Stump was back from his UK adventure, and I was stoked to hear him speak again. I have always honored him. I don't think he'll ever understand how much he has changed my life. The more I get involved with the people at church the more I understand that this is why God called me to Nashville. I cannot wait to get out of school and apply for ASM. I know this is what I am supposed to do. And finally, I have peace without fear, and I am passionately in love with Christ!

   God is good. God is good. God is good.

The Little House of Flora:

All On One Couch:

Conversations:

"I just wish that I was wise. I'm so stupid all the time. I feel like I was wise when I was young. Back when I had faith. Back when faith seemed more real and made more sense than the absence of faith. But the people I have loved have taken so much out of me. And the world. And boys. And in my nakedness they took everything. And now nakedness hurts. And transparency is used as a weapon, and the world is hard and faith is emaciated by reality...and it's so small now that it's lost its voice.
 I asked a little boy in my JA class how much time the students had left to work on their math assignment. He said "I don't really know. But it doesn't really matter does it? I can't tell time." I was so jealous of him. I wish I didn't know how to tell time. Because then all the days wouldn't be blocked off in weary segments that I just am waiting to get to the end of because it all seems so hopeless. I wish I was little and time didn't matter because I could be in every moment and maybe bring back to life something that can't seem to find revival."

   AJM

"Out of breath,
 Hoping someday
 I'll breathe again."

Poetry is dead.
Can't you hear the Reaper?
He's raking through the leaves of lost pages.

I've memorized his feet.

I am transparent.
I am transparent
I am transparent.

My personality is cancerous. I'm convinced. And no one will ever read this, because it's not really worth their time. I'm not really worth their time. I'm not really worth anyone's time. I'm not valuable. Not anymore. I was once--back when I could say something wise, or philosophical, or hysterical to break the tension. But I'm not anymore. I don't have my cards in order, and I always say the odd thing. I can't make jokes because I'm too stiff, and then I make everyone uncomfortable. People know I'm in my head when I talk to them. They know I'm worrying about my weight, and my hair, and my skin, and that I checked my breath, and my teeth, and my nose, and my makeup ten times before I left the house. They can tell that my neck hurts because I am tense, and I'm already listing all the reasons why I'm the lamest one at the party--standing in the way.

I am in the way.
I am in the way.
I am in the way.

I think I was once exotic. But something snapped. And now I'm mean. And all my energy goes into trying to hide it, because no one knows how mad I really am. And how sad I really am. And how lonely I really am.

And I think I've stopped showering
Because no one cares.

Because if no one else loves me,
Then I can't love me.

And it's all my fault because
I can't seem to make myself worthy.
I can't seem to make myself


Seen. 

Doctor. Doctor. Doctor.

We're all starving here.

To the Man that Stole My Mother:

I waited all day on the porch swing.
From the window it looked like they were laughing.
And then he took a swing.

And he swung and swung and missed.
Until he swung and swung and didn't.
And when she went out in a body bag,
He was the only one beside her.

"Get out. You're born and raised."
 She said.
 There was no point in trying to fight
 Her.

 His mouth was her mouth,
 His thoughts were her thoughts,
 His hands were her hands.

 "We're one,"
  She said.

 My eyes were raw roadmaps from crying
 Over the plans they'd
 Made
 To map me
 Out of

 Her life

  Before
     The
       Grave--

 Grave day
   
    That keeps replaying in my head:

"Get out.

 You're born and raised."


"You're born and raised."

 She said.

This Little House

“Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.”

  -C.S. Lewis 

On a Quiet Porch in East Nashville

     Ivory peeks in from the face of a pale moon. It kisses the curves of Neta's face as her plump,
her cherry, her glistening martini lips part for sighing breaths and belly laughs. She is pomegranate and gold; she is goddess with her curly coif and glamour with her gestures bold, and gestures broad. She is brash. She is acute. Honesty rises and falls inside the walls of her chest--breathes up from behind her collarbone. Her eyes are clear. Her charisma spirals up into the clarity of a still night. We sit folded, and in anticipation--like children--as the stars transfix themselves like illuminated cut-outs against the silk of a navy sky.
  She beams and arches her eyebrow sarcastically, at the interruptions of his voice.

  He is all there.
  I observe him as he reclines casually in his navy, velvet chair.
  He is rugged, and denim. Wisdom hangs itself upon his brow; softness kisses his face. His voice growls up from his Bourbon belly. And he's right about everything. And I want him to always be right...about everything. His chest is a home with a wrap around porch, with loved in couches, and worn in wool throws. I am enamored by his rugged hands that graze his lips as he inhales the coated smoke of a late winter and a Liga Privada.
   Toward my right he poses the question: "So, what is your post graduation plan?" I listen to Kacy's answer. It is flooded with Italy, and unending roads to bound down fearlessly. I gaze up into the night and reflect on when he asked me the same question. He doesn't know that in the small compilation of a few short weeks my answer has dramatically changed. I observe his slooping stoop, the foundational cracks in his concrete paths, the glow of his translucent twinkle lights, and the bridges of his white french door frames.

   "This."
    I respond to myself.
    So much of my life I have merely existed. I have hid between the crevices of fear and mundane expectation. My post graduation plan is to have at least one lopping futon and endless grilled cheeses, to be a refuge for all friends in the fray of melancholy, to bathe my loved ones in berry wine, and to always be able to recommend a new book to read.
      I want to live a full life with peculiar art, and oddly shaped vases, with full cookie jars and breakfast tables full of faces. I want to work to live and never live to work. I want to never find myself between the rigid lines of calculations, or heavy laden beneath the weight of all the days that I never lived. I want to ignite the days with exuberant love, until chaos finds still moments, and conflict encounters resolve, until irrationality reaches the quiet arms of reason, and all the broken bows have made amends.