Religion is always touchy for people, since the thought of living in a snow globe forces people to question just how meaningful their lives are. I personally have always believed in God, Jesus, and the works. I read the Bible like I used to read comic books, eagerly flipping from page to page watching miracles happen. I pray like I'm talking to an old friend and always feel the yellow cellophane protection of the man upstairs.

This is mainly because of angels. The angels, or the works mentioned above, are the guardians and protectors of humanity. They have these humongous wings and are beings of light according to the parts of the Bible I've read and reread. They're Christian superheroes, esentially, and I enjoy talking about them. There are so many attributes that make them the coolest thing on my mind, yet talking about anything reomtely religious makes people go up in arms.

I want to write about a kids show about angels. Similar to Veggie Tales but less preachy and Power Rangers but more serious, the show would revolve around angels saving people. However, this country's relationship with religion is such materialistic bullshit that I can't think of a way to make a good show without it getting shot down or changed to be something I don't like. America uses Christianity to cover their asses, and I want my show to be someting authentic.

So far, there is a school for the angerls located in the heart of Texas. The school is a Christian school (obviously) and has four levels. All the angels are on the fourth level, and are being sent out to try to earn their wings. Their wings symbolize graduation. They are sent to live in an apartment and they help people in the complex with their issues through a vareity of ways. There would be an element of "magic" (miracles) as well as a positive message about helping others and being a good person. I'm hoping I can make that work somehow.

I’m worried that because most of my writing is me venting my frustration and or depression, that everyone thinks this is how I am in person.

I keep all of my thoughts and emotions inside and to myself. I don’t go around whining about everything that’s wrong or every ache and pain in my life.

Im the person that everyone else calls to vent to or talk about their problems with because they know I don’t discuss with others and I try to help with good advice.

I guess internally I am sad and angry at how the way my life has turned out, because this is not the life I wanted, but that doesn’t keep me from still trying to help others be happy or make a positive post on Instagram.

so just know if I’m being a downer here I’m just venting.

CW: mentions of the topic of death

Writing about certain topics, especially when written at certain ages, can be easily misunderstood and turned into concern for one’s safety. In way it’s a good thing, I’m glad that there were people around me who read what I wrote and checked in on me. One the other had I always found it difficult to share or even write pieces that covered these topics because I was worried that I would make someone concerned. The ‘certain topics’ I’m referring to is anything todo with death. A characters death or even injury would have my freinds and family asking me if I was ok, if there was anything wrong. Bones, plague doctors, skeletons, death, all of that stuff. I enjoy writing and drawing it, not in a violent way. More of a ‘adorable skeleton puppy who lives with the grim reaper uwu’ way. (I cringed so hard writing that last thing). I liked to draw cute plague doctors in fancy hats, write about deities of death or grim reapers. The topic just fascinated me, plague doctors and grim reapers looked so cool! But when one writes about those kind of things, especially during their teenage years, it gets misinterpreted and causes concern. In a way, it’s a good thing. But it also caused me to be scared about what I was writing, that what I was interested in or enjoyed writing about was wrong.

Sometimes I feel like I’m speaking a different language. Something rhythmically obscure off a planet, around the corner from the milky way.

To be misunderstood, misinterpreted

and misplaced

can feel so lonely.

Still I move forward with over explanations, and overextending my hand to whoever wants to grasp it.

My soul moves to a ballad of linear percussionists, steady on beat.

My voice is more of a cliche metaphor in the middle of a beautiful book that throws you back to reality. Beating that dead horse repeatedly until It breaks.

I go back and read my words a lot

and think about the reflection they might make

it's hard to say just what I think of myself

but I know that I am more than heartache

I write about confusion

about decision making

about the pain that comes when doors are closed for you

I write about my life

and about others that I know

and still others that do not exist,

but that you might relate to

I am not miserable

I am grateful for my life

I believe that God has saved me from the evil of mankind

I am by no means perfect

and I still have (real) bad days

but despite the pain in my words

my life is pretty great.

I am blessed with a family who knows me and is true

in their affection and so I honor them

the best I can

I am blessed with a job that I find fulfilling

despite being incredibly frustrating

I am blessed with the ability to think abstractly and write.

I am blessed with youth and strength

even though I feel myself aging

I am blessed with pain and heartache

that I might recognize when I'm happy

I want to be healthy

kind, understanding

funny, smart, wealthy and wise

I want to raise a family

and work on my whole being

to develop the part of the world that I walk on

and treat it as though it were mine.

If I have to tell you that I am happy and that I am not hurting is it true?

I tell you that my heart is hard and stable, something like bamboo.

But my words, they, seem to tell a different story.

And as I compile the truth in the form of a inventory, it seems like all my strength is apart of pre-history.

Maybe my heart is something like bamboo.

It grows and rejunviates almost as fast as fields of willowy grass.

My roots are hard though unmoveable, such a contrast.

If I have to tell that I am good; is it true?

All my truths's, to speak of, feel so taboo.

My words I pray are a place of shelter through and through.

That's what I try to construe.

On the outside looking in I know my roots look dead, rotten.

Dead and living though we have something in common.

In life the rotten roots breathed purity.

It all was a show of prosperity.

Together we all stood in solidarity.

In death, though the roots may not breath purity, they give evidence of truth, of a life well lived.

In death it's roots are refined.

They are revised.

And people look on with pride.

Decomposition brings people together, in stride.

Isn't that all any poet desires?

That our words flow into something higher lost in mystic satire?

Misunderstand my words, glean from them what you must.

Words that I scribbled that late august.

If I have to tell the truth of my words then you've already missed the point.

If they are not air to your soul, truth to your mind, and a high romance to your heart my purpose has failed.

The more I attempt at poetry I flex my universal joints.

From the tree tops I've survellied.

I know that the essence will not forever be clear.

That's okay because I know that I am no shakespeare.

If I have to tell you that I am okay is it true?

Am I really as strong as the tall bamboo?

Are my words that different of a story?

Am I really a contrast?

Who am I through and through?

I don't really know what I am trying to construe.

In purity do I really bring prosperity?

Or have I lost myself in the solidarity?

Is everyone losing interest in my attempts at mystic satire?

Is my poetry just words to be worked out before the year brings the haze of another late august.

Have my unexercised universal joints atrophied?

Has the comprehension of my words gotten lost in black sulphide?

I am no shakespeare.

I'm almost afraid that my words will be lost in this mundane sphere.

That my words aren't at all like the strong arms of bamboo.

They are nothing brand new.

Isn't that every poets fear? That we just wrote words that you thought you once knew?