Feeding

It needs something to feed on
and it won't stop
I don't know how to starve it
so it will die
and leave me in peace
it has been given too much
but at the same time not enough

Life is a Torn Book

Life is a torn book.

It doesn't seem like Goldilocks.

It doesn't seem like Sleeping Beauty with a prince ready to save you.

It does not seem like a fairy tale at all.

It is a book still.

You will find yourself grazing the words peacefully and then suddenly….

There is a tare, a blank page.

You don’t know what to do and while you sit by the tare grow larger and the page feels deeper.

You're scared and lost on your journey.

You want to ask for help, but your afraid of what the world will do to you.

What you don’t realise is that there is always a pen to write with.

There is always more pages to read on, And there is always more tape to fix the broken part of your heart.

You will have options many times, but as humans we choose to ignore the page.

We choose to let the page rip itself apart when we had the option to tape it back together in the first place.

Sometimes we have to move on.

There are times when fire is consuming your world, but using water would only soak the pages.

Sometimes the only options come with consequences, but we forget.

We forget the pain that rips the pages and burns the lives of others.

We want to help them with water, but too much will make them drown.

What we don’t realize, is that we can pat the fire down.

We can dry the pages, and yes it takes time.

Its hard to remember but sometimes the option is so simple….

so simple.

So while some of you sit in your brick houses, laughing at the big bad wolf, remember others who sit in their houses made of stick and straw, counting the seconds left until their blown over.

There are times we will live in both houses.

So remember others who didn't realize there was tape lying there.

Remember those who didn't realize there was a pen, ready to continue writing,

and remember those who were sitting there, who didn't see the hand stretched out, tap them on the shoulder, and pull them up!

Life doesn't seem like a fairy tale, but we can all be heroes.

All you have to do is remember that there is a solution to every problem.

There is always garlic for Dracula.

There is always a silver bullet for the werewolf,

and there is always tape to mend the page back together.

Tell My Story...

My rings should tell my story, swirling the years of growth and drought, etching my tale for the world to read. That is not happening. The surface where the saw bit through decades is now charred, and my voice is choked, even as young feet shuffle past what is left of me toward something better, something new, with concrete and steel. I want to scream out that I was not always this stump, this lifeless remnant of what had once been strong and tall.

I want to once again whisper with the breeze, to tell the story of those two laughing lovers who sat beneath my branches. He had leaned against me as he sat, and she had leaned into him, letting the sunlight that tumbled through my leaves dance on freckled cheeks as she closed those bluest of eyes and allowed his arms to wrap around her. Later, as the rays of the sun dipped below my branches, he took a small blade and pressed the tip through my rough bark, carving four letters set in paris and joined within the border for a heart. I did not mind the discomfort that the scar left, no more than he regretted the indelible mark she would carve into his heart itself, where he hoped to hold her forever. The scar on me fell when I did; I wonder now if those four initials one day became three, or if those two youths would one day become one more.

But I cannot let that story drift do to those who walk past me. That gently carved heart has been replaced with only the blackened char of regret and death.

What treasures I would shower if I could only once more drop the leaves of the tales from years passed. Someone should hold a leaf to the sky and trace the veins that reveal the story of that young girl, pig-tailed and pinkless, who clamored up my lower branches to the highest limbs that would hold her, climbing a ladder seemingly built just for her. I must admit that more than once I leaned my arms toward her, allowing an outstretched hand to pull her up higher, leaving those boys far below. Boys who threw rocks, pine cones, and cruel names, but who would later chase her as high as she would let them.  In my fallen state, I cannot see beyond the horizon of age, and I wonder if she is still climbing, forever fearless, no limbo out of reach, or did she one day fall to earth?

In my leveled state, I cannot see. But, the truth is, I know now I never truly fell. Not when the weevil bored deep within my core, ring by ring, and left me creaking in the Kansas wind. Not when then dropped me from my height, sending me crashing to the grass. Not even when they reduced me with blades and wedges and let flames devour me. No, I still live on. As long as new initials trace the roots to those carved initials or young climbers give life to tiny crawlers, I continue to spread my branches.

Hey, you! Yes you, Skinny. I have been ignoring you since they dropped you into the earth and your roots began intertwining with mine. I see they have staked you upright. That is good. We all need a little guidance, especially when we are young and easily bent by the winds that blow. Grow straight and grow strong. And listen: if one day, small, filthy  hands yank you down, trying to pull some laughing creature up or if some smooth, strong hand presses a steel point into your rough flesh, do not sway away. The scars will be worth it.

              Life Is Like a Dollar.

Life is like a dollar
Sometimes you get rippled up and you want to give up and get a new one
But remember your worth something
In every dollar there's a hidden message
For every person there's a hidden talent
Life is like a dollar
Wasting your money is like wasting your life
Smoking, drugs, and bad decisions
Just like abusing your money
Once you have it all you want to do is just throw it away


                  -Brendan Webb

"Fulfilled Promises" by Amber A. Neighbor

I see so many tears. So much hardship. I look out and see a world of pain, and heartbreak. That was not my purpose. That was not the reason I was placed here. I am here for joy, promise and hope, but so many see me as a loss. So many tears.

I want to help. I want to make life better, but when people look at me, all they see is death. Torture. Stealing of all that is good in the world. When I am an instrument of torture, how do I change my image? Am I supposed to change my image? A man died to change my image, and yet that memory only brings more hate, death and destruction, all in my name, around the world. How can one compete with that?

           I am an image. I am a symbol. I am all that I am supposed to be. Or am I? When people hate and yell and curse at each other, was my purpose fulfilled? Was I not supposed to be a sign to all that a change was coming? Did I not hold that change on my arms, while the nations yelled hate and spread the promise to the world?

           All symbolism changes and it used to create a meaning by whomever chooses, but when did mine become death? What is the meaning of it all? I started as death. I blame Rome for that. Then I became hate. I blame Pontius for that. Then I became a promise that soon was twisted into a promise for domination. I blame the world for that. So many tears.

           But now, how do I change what I see in front of me? How do I make things new? Is it my job? How do I accomplish something everyone hopes, but no one cares to help? I bore hope to heaven and now, I hold the tears of the damned. Does it end?

           Once there was a man who claimed to bring hope. I followed him. I trusted him. I loved him. Then I was used to kill him. So many tears. My life is not what it was supposed to be. This is not what I am supposed to do. Where is the hope? Where is the love? Where is the future? Where is the promise? I am not worthy nor is anyone else here. So many tears.

           Life is tough and life is rough, but where is the joy?

           I see her.

           There is anticipation.

           There is expectation.

           There is peace like a river in her soul.

           She looks up at me. She sees me, but then doesn’t. She see beyond me; above me. She sees Him. She sees Him. What words leave her lips and what love flows from her arms. She lifts up her voice to me, and I send them to the heavens, reminding me from whence my help comes from.

           The meaning of it all. It is more than the laughter and the tears; it is more than the hate and fears of a nation. He is calling and she is running to Him. Her voice calls out in praise and thanksgiving, even as I see tears in her eyes and hear sadness in her breath, purchased with loneliness of youth. But through it all, there is love. Love. The emotion is so strong it sings out of her skin, radiating the thrills and joys that once I held every time a soul came to me. Every time a need was met. She sings a love song for a Savior. She sings to the One above me, the One whom I need and needed me to fulfill the promise. She sings.

           It is well. It is well. It is well with my soul.           

 

Fear

Fear will take the best of us
Then come back for the rest of us
Its endless hunger is never satisfied
It's closer than a brother
More jealous than a lover
It'll hold you close as it swallows you alive
If you let down your guard
It'll steal your spark
There's no thief like fear

We try to blame jealousy
The weakness of human fallacy
The cruel and shifting winds of circumstance
But insecurities
Are the worst of our own enemies
And they'll rob you blind
Right before your eyes
There's no thief like fear

Grand Father Oak - Short Story

This story is based off one of the many pictures we took around camp in which we were asked to tell the story from the point of view of the object, as if it could speak itself. The picture i decided to use was of a split tree that was broken in half. The picture you will see below this text. We could angle our story in many ways and this was my story that I decided to create.

I am what they used to call, Grand Father Oak.  "They", meaning the traitorous worships of the Indian tribe that live off these lands. What you see before you now is a shred of the power I once contained. Now I am burnt to the core with nothing left. The Indians made me their god, their savior. They did whatever they could to please me. Decorations, offerings, ... sacrifices. I played along and accepted these "gifts". and in the mean time I kept the forest calm. In a sense I do hail over these lands, but alas I only control the forest. They call me a god, but in reality I am just one of many supernatural beings. If I were to be such a god would you not think I could do anything in this world that I may possibly ever desire? As I said, I only hail over the forest itself. Not the humans, or even the disasters caused by the humans, or the accidents made by the humans stupidity. Even though all of this has been stated time and time again, human nature is the same, I tried to prevent this devastation, this destruction, but in the end, human nature prevails to destroy the forest as it always does.

One day, one of the young ones from the tribe visited me and played along my roots. The chiefs son arrived with disgust at the dishonor the young one was bringing to his tribe. He yelled at the boy, dishonoring him and breaking the boy. In the end the boy was slaughtered at the hands of the chiefs son. He called this a "redemption" to his tribe, and how it was all in my name. My name! He has the nerve to sacrifice a boy at my roots and say it was for the good of me. If he could only sense my rage at the time in order to see reason. The tribe however shared the same rage as I did. Only at the time they could not see that one of their own tribe would enact such a heinous crime. They blamed me for the murder by saying I could have done something, maybe even protected the boy. They will never understand how power works, and now they will never get the chance.

The next day, the whole tribe was shooting doubt at my position as a god and how I let their own child die. So I did the only thing within my power I could possibly use to root out the evil within the tribe. I sent the sacred pack of the forest after the chiefs son. The pack, is the guardian wolves that protect this forest. I would see this as justice for the murder. A life for a life right? However the tribe only saw this as another murder. One more life lost at the hands of me. This one they could blame on me as it was my doing, but humans never look at the reason behind a problem, only the problem itself. The chief being in extreme distress called out for faith as I was no longer any such god to them. I killed his son, and to them he was a hero. The pain I have caused by one murder, no matter how justified, caused these events to take place. To this day I regret using murder as a justification for any sort of crime.

The tribe soon stopped decorating me. They never visited or even brought a gift to me. My leaves soon turned pale in the sunlight, and all that was left of me was the dying flowers hanging from my sullen branches. I became just another tree to them among the forest. I could display all the power in the world to show me being more than that, but to them I was nothing more. At the time my fury took over my reason, The tribe needed to be disciplined. Those who are faithless need to be punished. I loathed for the day from where my power could enact the vengeance required to force their faith on me. For the time being, the volcano would suit as a perfect candidate to display my power.

I called on my strength to the point of no return. My limits were exalted to bring down hell upon their evil. I saw this as a justification as the only way to show them how I am the powerful being which should hail over them. Minutes have gone by, and the tribe suspects nothing of it. Then, as if an earthquake is shattering the earths core, the ground trembles violently. The tribe screams, and falls to the ground, some hang desperately to the edges of their houses for support. Before they even sense what is truly happening, The volcano awakens. To this day, I regret the power I have released upon them.

They burned to death within minutes of the release. I laughed at their misery as I finally displayed my power. They should all recognize this now, and now I am not another tree, for I am a god! The few that remained including the chief called me out. I grinned as I knew they would beg for the mercy of their god. Instead they called me the devil. The chief vowed to return to remove the evil of me from the world once and for all. They all left me for a month, until one day he returned.

The volunteers of the chiefs own inquisition surrounded me, as if testing what was left of my power. They thought they could just remove me and be done with all this terror. The chief stood high on a pillar to call out my sins. He listed them off one by one, and then he recalled the boy. The one who was murdered at my roots. The one the tribe cast blame at me for. The one whos blood spilled tainted my roots to the core, corrupting me by the hands of a murder. The chief, after listing these sins, vowed to root out these evils by force... literally. My roots burst upwards casting the soldiers in the air. I was never going to let them blame me for this. The tribe caused this, I was the victim and they come to kill me? One last display of power was all I could emit. To finally show the tribe a lesson. One that I have learned harshly myself.

Lighting surged in all directions in the sky casting a perfect circle across my branches. The soldiers stood reluctantly as if waiting for an order. One surge one lighting was all it took. It arched down upon the earth with all the force in the worlds possession. The lighting was to much for my hallow body to take. It surged through my core and cast on the earth erupting and charring anything left living. I laughed at my victory until I finally took in the damage tole and understood how I am now nothing more that a split tree with nothing left but a voice.

Not a single soul was left alive but me. Every life I had protected so many years ago, now cast away by my very branches. I am a broken embodiment of the devil. The evil displayed at my roots caused this corruption on all that was left pure. I regret this pain that I have caused but now that the tole was taken accounted for, I long for some peace. As I said I am no god, although my corruption made me to believe otherwise, but I am now simply just another tree among the forest. I did strive for a purpose, and now I am less then the forest surrounding me. The tribe won their conquest to destroy me, but I removed their existence in the process. I wish for death, but in the end I deserve all the misery in the world, and to this day I remain but another tree with a story to tell.