poem
Poetry, When You Pray

Wild Donkeys Go Blind from Starvation

Pigs and pearls

And little girl dreams

And the nothing

More than what I’m not.

And you,

A

Sharp-mouthed

Word

Birthed by an

Empty

Belly.

 

Your flint tongue

Set the

Grass on fire,

But can you

Eat the

Ashes?

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poem
Poetry, When You Pray

The Disaster is Coming

My mouth

Is spoken

But hollow

And torn

Demonic

With evil

Things

And thoughts

And peeled

Inside, the

Tongue and

Tissue,

Flaked away

Like skin dying

In the sun.

 

Sin is sometimes

The only thing

I eat, less

Calories, slim waist,

And I take

That quick image

With my eyes

Like it’s the only

Picture worth

Seeing.

 

Grant me

Freedom,

Dead serpents,

Clean air,

A fiery heart.

Because no

Good deed goes

Unpunished.

Let me know

The punishment,

Like I know

The hard parts

Of the dark.

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Poetry, When You Pray

Once You Were Like an Olive Tree Covered in Fruit

There you were,

Deeply rooted

In whatever

Lie shrunk your heart,

Branches clawing

At a sky who

Wouldn’t save

You.

And do you know how

Many times

I look in the mirror,

Feel the skin,

Dig deep

Nail by nail,

To find where

My own roots

Have knotted

And lost the

Urge to

Drink?

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Blog

Killing pride.

My god is me.

I’ve never had a hard time loving myself.

And hating myself.

And focusing on myself.

It’s the sin of pride. Of utter disillusionment.

And it’s all over Twitter.

It’s all over the world.

Our fear is tricky.

It has a way of coiling, snake-like into our knees and elbows.

It becomes us.

And we play victim to it.

Sometimes, master.

But then for a few of us,

there’s that moment we give it up.

We exchange the world for the One

who created it.

And we’re left with fresh eyes,

Old lens and retina scalpeled

and peeled, soaking in a hot-white

reality where truth is buried deep

and lies are swallowed whole.

We are new.

Fresh.

But the stink

can still seep into

the pores.

There’s always

a stalking, walking

lion,

ready to devour.

But then again,

there’s also the

hopefully-winged

beating of our

hearts.

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publishing
Updates

Let’s get published, y’all.

You guys.

I need to get my stuff published.

But my stuff has a heart for Jesus and a gritty way of expressing itself.

So, “Good luck, Ericka” right?

WRONG.

Because my good friend, Veronica, just solved all of my problems.

She’s created the Heart of Flesh Literary Journal that is seeking writers like me.

And if you happen to be just like us, please submit your work, too.

Think of the ministry this could be, connecting Christians and non-Christians and aptly producing works that ACCURATELY portray the Christian faith.

No hair braiding or hand holding here, folks.

Can you do me a favor and share this post so we can get the word out? Tweet, Facebook, call your grandmother.

You should probably call your grandmother anyways.

I’d appreciate it. And so would she.

Here’s to creative genius, a deep love for the Savior, and painting the dark with light.

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Blog

She talks to Jesus.

I talk to Jesus all the time.

But not in a super weird religious way that doesn’t fit right but in a sort of, “Oh hey there, best friend, this guy is offering us free popcorn. You want some, too?” kind of way which often gets me kicked out of Wal-Mart.

It’s like I take Him in by osmosis, deep breath by deep breath.

And I think it might be for a few reasons:

  • I’m growing deeper in my faith journey. I’m learning more. I’m learning to love others which has never been my cup of tea. I’m making myself available to people, which I supposed is part of that whole loving thing. Again, it hurts. (The fact that my husband and I routinely joke about my icy heart and RBF should tell you a thing or two. Which he kind of loves because I can’t be moved, y’all.)
  • The world is ending. I feel like one of those crazies on a street corner with the sign and unwashed hair but the crazy has worn off and all I see is a deep commitment to truth in their eyes.
  • I’ve cut the fat. There are so many distractions on the daily. I’ve removed so many in my life that I now feel like I have my finger on the pulse of who God is and who He created me to be.

Perfection? Ah, heck no.

But growth? I’ve got that one down pat.

And really, it all began with one little word to the Father Almighty:

“Hello.”

Insert Adele sound clip here.

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