I gotta get this steaming pressure cooker off my chest. I don’t know what I am searching for, but maybe I will find it when I get there. I think it is the journey that I want and nothing else. It’s all about that road with failures that we take to get to victory.
I know faith is something we need, in love and creativity, with a capacity that is magnificent. This landscape is my painting and I have lived many colors. I do NOT wish to be a bitter Scottish rutabaga, but would love to leave vibrant colors on an anointed canvas.
I have kept my wits about me all these years even with our divisions. My intentions are to follow through on this no matter how often I want to give up. I won’t give up even when I end up in grave danger. We are all headed to our graves someday, somehow.
So, it is essential that we leave inklings of us behind so we can trace our electronic signature onto artwork for others to discover when we bask in a promise land. The message will never die because there are plenty of us.
If I could capture an audience so that they could see a glimpse of what I see, I would give us the steam from a sauna that would keep our spirit bodies wet for eternity. I would be waist deep grasping fish out of lake mud. I would give my life to have all the divided people love each other.
I have made mistakes, I have fallen on my face a thousand times. I have fallen from grace twenty-seven-thousand-n-a-half times more. These imperfections made me stronger. This experience made me ready to headstrong a war against devils.
The corporations and hemoglobin suckers. The pig-profiteering banksters living at the Federal Reserve. The Monsantos of the Earth that have multiplied skyscrapers to eat away at the linings of Heaven.
Souls are connected to lustful obsessions that have attached us to possessions of waste. The entire anthill is fed the next fashion that continues to enslave us in our land of the free.
I will battle beasts that thieve the moments we find clarity. Those moments when we believe that humanity isn’t all meaningless and for profit. Those moments when we give compassion to the heartbroken.
The drug addicted. The weak of heart. The contrived ones. The woman beaten an inch of her life. The homeless family men. The afflicted soldiers. The abused children. The will-broken. The suicidal ills. The unjustly ridiculed. The grieving widows. The handicapped.
The ones that hate you for being human. The debt-stricken dreamers. The cancer patients. The freedom-stripped. The lust-battlers. The mentally bitter. The sad comedians. The praying sons and daughters. The rebellious teenagers. The innocent prisoners with life sentences.
The infinite tragedies that every human knows are there but refuses to speak upon.