u/Unpolished-Gem1951

​

​Out of the deep and heavy earth,

Where darkness pressed before our birth,

The Father’s hands began to shape,

A sacred ground, a sacred grace.

No beauty comes without the strain,

No luster shines without the pain;

For every child and child to be

Is forged into eternity—

The precious jewels He chose to yield:

God’s treasure; the stones that pressure built.

​The First Generation: The Children

​Selina — Red Beryl

The eldest jewel, rare and red,

Where ruby warmth and strength are wed.

A vibrant pulse, a fire bright,

A steady guide through dark and night.

Formed in the heat where passions rise,

A brilliant beauty in God's eyes.

​Bernadette — Taaffeite

Exceeding rare, beyond compare,

A delicate and gentle air.

A whisper soft, a quiet grace,

That brings a calm to every space.

Born under weight few ever see,

A masterpiece of purity.

​Orlando — Benitoite

A flash of blue, a sapphire soul,

Whose steady purpose makes us whole.

With fire hidden deep within,

Where strength and honor both begin.

A stone of truth, upright and true,

Reflecting heaven’s radiant blue.

​Donny — Alexandrite

In daylight emerald, in shadow red,

A changing light where hope is fed.

Adaptable, resilient, strong,

Knowing to whom his roots belong.

In every shift of life's fierce gale,

His inner glory will prevail.

​Izacc — Grandidierite (The Deep Seeker)

The deep sea ocean in his eyes,

A heart that searches for the wise.

He dives beyond the surface stream

To find the essence of the dream.

A seeker after God’s own heart,

Set from the world and light apart.

​Sean — Larimar

A tranquil tide, a sky of peace,

Where restless waters find release.

A soothing breeze, a soft blue ray,

To light the burdens of the day.

A gentle soul, serene and kind,

A jewel of peace for all to find.

​The Foundation: Painite

​

Forged in the depths, a stone untamed,

The rarest bedrock ever named.

A pillar standing through the strain,

Born from the heat and through the pain.

It grounds the house and holds the line,

To guard this legacy divine.

​The Second Generation: The Grandchildren

​Aniyah — Musgravite (Selina’s Daughter)

Inheritor of strength untold,

More precious than the finest gold.

A rare endurance, fierce and pure,

With foundation made to endure.

She stands upon the high ground set,

A crown of joy we’ll not forget.

​Nevaeh — Padparadscha Sapphire (Bernadette’s Daughter)

The light of sunset, lotus bloom,

A sudden warmth in every room.

Where pink and orange gently blend,

A touch of heaven God did send.

Her name is heaven spelled right back,

In beauty she shall never lack.

​Araceli — Serendibite (Orlando’s Daughter)

A rare celestial, deep-hued stone,

Whose quiet wonder stands alone.

A blessing from the throne above,

An altar built of peace and love.

In every facet, clear and bright,

She reflects the Father’s light.

​The Legacy

​Though pressure tested every soul,

The Maker used it to make us whole.

Not one is lost, not one erased,

Each in the Master's crown is placed.

From child to grandchild, line by line,

Forged in His love by hand divine.

​“They shall be Mine,” says the Lord of hosts, “On the day that I make them My jewels.”

— Malachi 3:17

​The Boy, the Mask, and the Looking Glass

​The Trap

I watched the glowing shadows move across a crowded screen,

And read my private chapters on a page I’d never seen.

A thousand hurting voices sang a song that sounded mine,

I took the bait, I took the hook, and crossed a deadly line.

The devil’s in the details when the mind begins to spin,

You build a courtroom in the dark to lock the innocent in.

​The Fuel

It’s heavy how a simple lie can feel like solid stone,

When sitting in the quiet room and feeling so alone.

You take a word, a glance, a ghost, and turn it into proof,

And burn the very pillars down that hold your only roof.

I gathered up a pile of straw and swore that it was steel,

Destroying ground beneath my feet to make the phantom real.

​The Cost

I strip away the heavy shield, the bitter words I spoke,

And watch the whole illusion fall away like heavy smoke.

I thought I held the answers, thought I mapped a hidden plot,

And wove a net from quiet things that she had never thought.

The mirror shows no mercy when the noise begins to fade,

And you must sit in silence with the wreckage you have made.

​The Projection

I took the shadows in my chest and threw them on her face,

And used my own unsettled mind to tear apart her grace.

Afraid of losing what I loved, I struck before I lost,

And severed every living vine, ignoring what it cost.

I turned my terror inside out and wore it like a spear,

And traded true devotion for a crown of rage and fear.

​The Shield

She watched the man she trusted snap and shatter in his mind,

Engaged in battles with a ghost the truth could never find.

I made her tremble in the space where safety should have grown,

Until she raised a wall of ice to match my heart of stone.

She wasn't pulling far away or playing out a game—

She shielded her untainted soul from my unholy flame.

​The Looking Glass

Yet in the heavy quiet came a cold and clear decree,

It stripped away the grand parade and forced my eyes to see.

When all the smoke had cleared away, the mirror knew the score:

The armor was a house of cards, the threat was nothing more.

What stood before the glass was not a giant in the night,

No champion of iron who was prepared to win the fight—

Just a sad and lonely little boy, shivering in the dark,

Dressed up inside a grown man’s suit, searching for a spark.

​The Ownership

A two-edged blade of sudden truth has cut me to the core,

I manufactured the deceit—I was deceived no more.

It brought me down upon my knees in guilt and bitter shame,

For every broken boundary, I carry all the blame.

I own the weight, I face the wreck, yet break its holding spell,

I speak the truth to pull my soul out of this self-made hell.

I throw away this jagged iron, this badge of self-inflicted pain,

To step beyond the shattered glass and wash beneath the rain.

​(A deliberate pause in the dark...)

​The Voice

A voice broke through the silence, cutting clean across the night,

It struck the heavy darkness with a sudden, blinding light.

It whispered to the boy inside: "It’s done. Get up, my son.

The fever dream has broken, and the false web is undone.

You cannot sit beside the grave... the damage done is true.

You misunderstand its purpose.

This never was about you.

Rise up out of the wreckage... you still have work to do."

​"For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any twoedged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart." — Hebrews 4:12

​

​Silence used to feel like peace,

a quiet room where waters stilled,

until I watched the distance grow

in every space we left unfilled.

We bypassed truths to spare the night,

let little heartbreaks fade away,

forgetting small untended cracks

become the walls of yesterday.

​I do not want to start again

by picking up where we last stood,

as if the passage of this time

was meant for doing what we could

to hide the scars or pretend

that loving always knows the way—

it brings two souls under one roof,

but doesn't force a heart to stay.

​If paths align and bring us face

to face beneath a different sky,

I want the truth to take the room,

no longer asking how or why

we fear the uncomfortable words.

I want to say, "I need you here,"

and know that vulnerability

is held gently, not in fear.

​I will not promise perfect days,

nor say that distance will not grow,

for those are beautiful untruths

that life will never truly show.

I'd rather promise something real:

to stand beside, to listen deep,

to fight the problem, not each other,

and hold the promises we keep.

​Not walking behind, nor leading ahead,

but hand in hand as two made whole,

protecting the dreams and separate worlds

that form the anchor of each soul.

And when the quiet settles in,

to simply ask, "How are we now?"

To tend the love before it breaks,

and remember why, and remember how.

​I do not know what story waits,

or if the road turns back your way,

but if it does, I hope we choose

with open eyes to stay.

Not out of fear of being lost,

nor holding on to what used to be,

but choosing who we've both become,

standing together, rooted and free.

​

Anger strikes like a stifling heatwave,

an oppressive mid-August sun baking the asphalt until the air shimmers with violent haze.

It is the dry, parched crackle of brushwood waiting for a spark,

a sudden pressure spike that suffocates the chest,

radiating waves of scorching, unyielding heat that burn everything in its path.

Depression descends as a relentless blizzard,

a blinding whiteout that buries every visible landmark in heavy, numb silence.

The temperature plummets until even thought turns to ice,

a bitter frost that freezes the blood, stiffens the joints,

and traps the spirit beneath feet of impassable, bone-chilling drift.

Anxiety swirls as an erratic gale,

a restless, howling wind that changes direction without warning.

It is the sharp barometric drop before the funnel touches down,

rattling the windowpanes of the mind, kicking up debris,

and keeping the inner landscape in a perpetual state of high-velocity strain.

Grief hangs heavy like a monsoon downpour,

an endless grey sky weeping torrents into already saturated ground.

It is the slow, steady drip off cold eaves,

the rising mud that swallows footsteps,

and the heavy mist that obscures the horizon until all that exists is moisture and weight.

Jealousy thickens into a swampy sulfur fog,

a muggy, suffocating dampness that clings to the skin and blinds the eyes.

It turns the surrounding air murky and stagnant,

a sour, humid haze that distorts every clean line into something twisted and obscured.

Joy arrives as golden morning sunlight,

a crisp dawn thaw breaking through the canopy with soft, radiant warmth.

It is the light wind rustling through fresh green foliage,

drying the damp soil, clearing the sky to an immaculate blue,

and inviting the whole earth to breathe easy once again.

Hope shines like the first break in the storm,

a sudden beam of light piercing through bruised, purple clouds.

It is the smell of petrichor on warm earth,

the clean air after a hard rain, promising that the tempest has finally passed

and that the soil beneath is ready to grow anew.

Yet love remains the most distinct and baffling forecast of all,

a wildly unpredictable climate that defies every meteorological rule.

When mutual, it is a microburst of tropical warmth in the middle of winter,

a sudden sun-shower where rain falls straight out of an empty sky,

filling every drop with light, nourishing and rich with promise.

It can be a roaring hurricane that somehow leaves the heart standing unharmed,

shifting from serene morning calm to a lightning strike in a single heartbeat—

the most volatile element in the atmosphere:

blinding, chaotic, life-giving, and utterly beyond control.

But when it stands unrequited, it turns into the most brutal terrain on earth—

a cruel, paradoxical weather pattern where you are scorched and frozen all at once.

It is a severe drought spent staring directly into a clear blue sky that offers no rain,

a desperate standing in the open field, bare-chested and exposed,

waiting for a lightning strike of warmth that only ever falls elsewhere.

Unreciprocated, it becomes a stark frostbite under a mocking sun:

the blinding illusion of light that carries absolutely no heat.

You are left shivering in a flash flood of your own pouring devotion,

drowning in an ocean you built for two while the shore stays dry, silent, and entirely untouched.

It is the rawest volatility—a violent storm that tears through your inner sanctuary,

demanding everything you have, while leaving the landscape on the other side completely unaffected.

​

Anger strikes like a stifling heatwave,

an oppressive mid-August sun baking the asphalt until the air shimmers with violent haze.

It is the dry, parched crackle of brushwood waiting for a spark,

a sudden pressure spike that suffocates the chest,

radiating waves of scorching, unyielding heat that burn everything in its path.

Depression descends as a relentless blizzard,

a blinding whiteout that buries every visible landmark in heavy, numb silence.

The temperature plummets until even thought turns to ice,

a bitter frost that freezes the blood, stiffens the joints,

and traps the spirit beneath feet of impassable, bone-chilling drift.

Anxiety swirls as an erratic gale,

a restless, howling wind that changes direction without warning.

It is the sharp barometric drop before the funnel touches down,

rattling the windowpanes of the mind, kicking up debris,

and keeping the inner landscape in a perpetual state of high-velocity strain.

Grief hangs heavy like a monsoon downpour,

an endless grey sky weeping torrents into already saturated ground.

It is the slow, steady drip off cold eaves,

the rising mud that swallows footsteps,

and the heavy mist that obscures the horizon until all that exists is moisture and weight.

Jealousy thickens into a swampy sulfur fog,

a muggy, suffocating dampness that clings to the skin and blinds the eyes.

It turns the surrounding air murky and stagnant,

a sour, humid haze that distorts every clean line into something twisted and obscured.

Joy arrives as golden morning sunlight,

a crisp dawn thaw breaking through the canopy with soft, radiant warmth.

It is the light wind rustling through fresh green foliage,

drying the damp soil, clearing the sky to an immaculate blue,

and inviting the whole earth to breathe easy once again.

Hope shines like the first break in the storm,

a sudden beam of light piercing through bruised, purple clouds.

It is the smell of petrichor on warm earth,

the clean air after a hard rain, promising that the tempest has finally passed

and that the soil beneath is ready to grow anew.

Yet love remains the most distinct and baffling forecast of all,

a wildly unpredictable climate that defies every meteorological rule.

When mutual, it is a microburst of tropical warmth in the middle of winter,

a sudden sun-shower where rain falls straight out of an empty sky,

filling every drop with light, nourishing and rich with promise.

It can be a roaring hurricane that somehow leaves the heart standing unharmed,

shifting from serene morning calm to a lightning strike in a single heartbeat—

the most volatile element in the atmosphere:

blinding, chaotic, life-giving, and utterly beyond control.

But when it stands unrequited, it turns into the most brutal terrain on earth—

a cruel, paradoxical weather pattern where you are scorched and frozen all at once.

It is a severe drought spent staring directly into a clear blue sky that offers no rain,

a desperate standing in the open field, bare-chested and exposed,

waiting for a lightning strike of warmth that only ever falls elsewhere.

Unreciprocated, it becomes a stark frostbite under a mocking sun:

the blinding illusion of light that carries absolutely no heat.

You are left shivering in a flash flood of your own pouring devotion,

drowning in an ocean you built for two while the shore stays dry, silent, and entirely untouched.

It is the rawest volatility—a violent storm that tears through your inner sanctuary,

demanding everything you have, while leaving the landscape on the other side completely unaffected.

​

Anger strikes like a stifling heatwave,

an oppressive mid-August sun baking the asphalt until the air shimmers with violent haze.

It is the dry, parched crackle of brushwood waiting for a spark,

a sudden pressure spike that suffocates the chest,

radiating waves of scorching, unyielding heat that burn everything in its path.

Depression descends as a relentless blizzard,

a blinding whiteout that buries every visible landmark in heavy, numb silence.

The temperature plummets until even thought turns to ice,

a bitter frost that freezes the blood, stiffens the joints,

and traps the spirit beneath feet of impassable, bone-chilling drift.

Anxiety swirls as an erratic gale,

a restless, howling wind that changes direction without warning.

It is the sharp barometric drop before the funnel touches down,

rattling the windowpanes of the mind, kicking up debris,

and keeping the inner landscape in a perpetual state of high-velocity strain.

Grief hangs heavy like a monsoon downpour,

an endless grey sky weeping torrents into already saturated ground.

It is the slow, steady drip off cold eaves,

the rising mud that swallows footsteps,

and the heavy mist that obscures the horizon until all that exists is moisture and weight.

Jealousy thickens into a swampy sulfur fog,

a muggy, suffocating dampness that clings to the skin and blinds the eyes.

It turns the surrounding air murky and stagnant,

a sour, humid haze that distorts every clean line into something twisted and obscured.

Joy arrives as golden morning sunlight,

a crisp dawn thaw breaking through the canopy with soft, radiant warmth.

It is the light wind rustling through fresh green foliage,

drying the damp soil, clearing the sky to an immaculate blue,

and inviting the whole earth to breathe easy once again.

Hope shines like the first break in the storm,

a sudden beam of light piercing through bruised, purple clouds.

It is the smell of petrichor on warm earth,

the clean air after a hard rain, promising that the tempest has finally passed

and that the soil beneath is ready to grow anew.

Yet love remains the most distinct and baffling forecast of all,

a wildly unpredictable climate that defies every meteorological rule.

When mutual, it is a microburst of tropical warmth in the middle of winter,

a sudden sun-shower where rain falls straight out of an empty sky,

filling every drop with light, nourishing and rich with promise.

It can be a roaring hurricane that somehow leaves the heart standing unharmed,

shifting from serene morning calm to a lightning strike in a single heartbeat—

the most volatile element in the atmosphere:

blinding, chaotic, life-giving, and utterly beyond control.

But when it stands unrequited, it turns into the most brutal terrain on earth—

a cruel, paradoxical weather pattern where you are scorched and frozen all at once.

It is a severe drought spent staring directly into a clear blue sky that offers no rain,

a desperate standing in the open field, bare-chested and exposed,

waiting for a lightning strike of warmth that only ever falls elsewhere.

Unreciprocated, it becomes a stark frostbite under a mocking sun:

the blinding illusion of light that carries absolutely no heat.

You are left shivering in a flash flood of your own pouring devotion,

drowning in an ocean you built for two while the shore stays dry, silent, and entirely untouched.

It is the rawest volatility—a violent storm that tears through your inner sanctuary,

demanding everything you have, while leaving the landscape on the other side completely unaffected.

​

​I.

I handed over the blueprint of my own chest,

brick by brick, timber by timber,

until I was living inside a house that wasn’t mine.

I softened the edges I thought were too sharp for her,

silenced the frequency I thought was too loud,

and traded the man I was

for the shadow she wanted to see.

​I gave away my seasons to keep her warm.

I poured myself out until the glass was dry,

and in the quiet constant of giving everything,

I forgot the sound of my own voice.

I became an echo in a room I used to own.

​II.

It is a quiet thing to realize you are missing.

Not lost in a storm, but slowly worn away—

like a stone beneath a tide that never stopped pulling.

I looked in the mirror one morning

and didn't recognize the posture,

didn't recognize the tired eyes

that had spent years watching for approval

instead of looking up at the sky.

​The collapse wasn't a sudden crash;

it was the silence that followed.

The moment the pedestal shattered

and the smoke cleared,

leaving me standing in the raw, cold air

with empty hands and an exhausted spirit.

​III.

Then came the stillness.

No applause to chase, no expectations to carry,

no performance to keep from falling apart.

Just the dust settling.

Just me, kneeling in the wreckage of what I tried to build.

​And in that space where everything else burned away,

a single hand reached down into the ashes.

​It wasn't a stranger's voice that met me there;

it was the One who knew the blueprint before I ever gave it away.

Jesus didn't ask me where I’d been;

He just pulled me up off the floor

and showed me the hands that held my name long before I ever spoke hers.

​IV.

Underneath the crushing weight,

the pressure was working in secret.

I thought I was just an unpolished gem,

rough, raw, and waiting for light.

But the fire didn't create the stone—it revealed it.

Ground down by the friction, cut by the trial,

the rough edges fell away until the true nature surfaced.

I was never common rock; I was built from heat and force,

polished through the process to finally see what was always there:

a depth and value that cannot be questioned.

​The armor is forged now, not to hide behind,

but to stand guard over what God restored—

for it is His.

A protector reborn from the fire.

A knight raised up from the dust of who I used to be.

​V.

Now, the breath comes deep again.

The ribs expand without fear.

I am dusting off the strength that was only sleeping,

remembering the fire that never truly went out.

​I am not starting over from scratch;

I am returning to the original design.

The man who protects, the man who stands firm,

the man who anchors his worth in something that cannot break.

​I look in the mirror now,

and for the first time in a very long time,

I smile at the man looking back.

​Welcome back, Painite.

​"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." — Matthew 11:28

​

​A tiny sparrow perched upon a humble wooden rail,

Without a grand pronouncement or a long, dramatic tale.

It did not speak in riddles, nor did gravity reverse,

It simply stood anchored in the grounding universe.

The sun arose in brilliance, casting light across the land,

And water poured down smoothly, wetting soil, rock, and sand.

​No floating heavy anvils, and no oceans filled with sand,

Just simple, steady reality held firm in God's own hand.

The air was clear and quiet as the creature leaned to look,

A living truth more absolute than any written book.

It tilted back its small head, breathing life into the dawn,

Acknowledging the grass beneath, the firm ground resting on.

​The wind moved through the branches in a natural, steady breeze,

The roots anchored down deeply in the earth beneath the trees.

What goes up must come down again; the heavy iron falls,

And light cuts through the darkness when the morning glory calls.

A heart beats in a chest to push the blood through every vein,

And sorrow reaps a tear, while honest sky bestows the rain.

​The bird breathed out a silent song of pure and simple grace,

A quiet testament to truth within this sacred place.

No madness and no upside-down, no crooked, twisted line,

Just plain and clear existence moving forward by design.

To walk in truth is not to drift through chaotic, blinding night,

But standing on the solid rock and walking in the light.

​No distorted mirrors here, no foggy lens to clear,

The truth remains completely pure, unvarnished, sharp, and near.

It rests in simple certainty, so plain it leaves you awed,

Exact and unembellished as the unfiltered word of God.

For truth is never tangled up in complicated lies—

It simply is what it is, right before our eyes.

​"Lead me in Your truth and teach me, for You are the God of my salvation; for You I wait all the day long."

— Psalm 25:5

​

​A clock decided to take a stroll, but forgot to pack its time,

So it walked in circles backward just to save a single dime.

The shadows caught a sunburn from the glowing silver moon,

While a dozen heavy anvils floated softly like balloons.

​We buttered up the carpet so the furniture could skate,

And we cooked a hearty soup inside a rusty iron gate.

The ocean got thirsty, so it drank a bowl of sand,

And the silence grew so noisy that we had to hold its hand.

​A ladder fell upward and landed on the sky,

While a blindfolded mirror watched a quiet whisper fly.

If you dig a hole in water, you will find a dry wooden flame—

Nothing here means anything, yet it’s all exactly the same.

​The leaves were raking the autumn trees,

The lock was locked by a dozen keys

That had no doors and had no teeth,

With top above and top underneath.

​The thunder grew quiet so the lightning could shout,

While the candle turned bright when we blew it right out.

We planted a feather and harvested stone,

Then answered a ring on an unhooked phone.

​A river ran sideways to keep itself dry,

And the mountains grew feathers to teach rocks to fly.

We packed up the void in a cardboard box,

And tied up the ocean with two woolen socks.

​The sun went to sleep on a bed made of ice,

While the cat begged for mercy from two tiny mice.

A square made of circles was drawn in the dust,

And the fresh shiny silver turned backward to rust.

​So fold your shoes and wear your socks upon your fuzzy ears,

For the shortest way across the room takes seven hundred years.

It doesn’t make a lick of sense, which means it’s totally clear:

The only way to find your way is getting lost right here.

​

​I am not the fallback when the dark sets in,

Nor the second line you call to try again.

I am not your silver medal, not your compromise,

And I won't settle for the half-truths in your eyes.

​I am not a side dish to satisfy a passing appetite,

Nor a side show distraction under temporary light.

I am not an option waiting quietly on a shelf,

To be picked up when you’re bored or unsure of yourself.

​Love isn't meant to be diluted, divided, or torn,

It is a sacred covenant, complete and fully born.

No half-hearted devotion, no confusing gray lines,

No room for third parties inside what is yours and mine.

​When two become one, the world must step aside—

No friend, no outside voice, no shadow can divide.

For order is established by a higher holy grace:

God stands above us, holding everything in place.

​Then comes the bond of husband and wife—

The core, the foundation, the centerpiece of life.

Before the children, before the blood, before the crowd,

This union is holy, unbroken, and unbowed.

​If I am not the first breath of your morning air,

And the last face you see before sleep claims you there,

If my name doesn't occupy your heart and mind,

Then leave me alone and leave this all behind.

​If someone else holds the space you claim to give to me,

Then walk toward them now and set both of us free.

I demand the crown, or I want no seat at all—

Either I am your primary focus, or you don't call.

​Genesis 2:24

"Therefore a man shall leave his father and his mother and hold fast to his wife, and they shall become one flesh."

​

​The smooth tongue speaks a polished word,

A narrative so neatly spun,

With rehearsed lines you’ve often heard,

Before the damage is undone.

They look you square, they wear a smile,

Mastering the art of false disguise,

Yet underneath the silver guile,

The truth is hidden in their eyes.

​For lips can fabricate a frame,

And forge a story outta air,

Playing a deceptive game,

Acts staged with calculated care.

But force the glance, lock in the gaze,

Demand the connection face-to-face,

And watch the mask begin to fray,

Stripped of its fabricated grace.

​The windows to the soul reveal

The subtle shifts they cannot hide;

The physical marks that break the seal

Of every myth constructed inside.

When memory speaks, the eyes go left,

Retrieving facts already known;

But when creation fills the cleft,

To the right the darting glance is thrown.

​They construct a tale, they craft a script,

Looking up to paint the scene,

Or down and away as confidence slipped,

Fearing what’s exposed between.

The rapid blink, the frozen stare

That holds too long to prove a point—

Involuntary signals laying bare

The truth that breaks their construct joint.

​No matter what the lips declare,

The eye contact will tear apart

The quiet traps, the hidden snare,

And expose the posture of the heart.

Real eyes observe, real eyes detect,

The subtle flinch, the guarded prize;

And in that moment of direct

Unflinching light: realize real lies.

​As the windows to ones soul disrupt and betray every fabrication, every single guise.

​"There are six things the Lord hates, seven that are detestable to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked schemes, feet that are quick to rush into evil, a false witness who pours out lies and a person who stirs up conflict in the community."

— Proverbs 6:16-19

​"For there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed, and nothing concealed that will not be known or brought out into the open."

— Luke 8:17

​

​The smooth tongue speaks a polished word,

A narrative so neatly spun,

With rehearsed lines you’ve often heard,

Before the damage is undone.

They look you square, they wear a smile,

Mastering the art of false disguise,

Yet underneath the silver guile,

The truth is hidden in their eyes.

​For lips can fabricate a frame,

And forge a story outta air,

Playing a deceptive game,

Acts staged with calculated care.

But force the glance, lock in the gaze,

Demand the connection face-to-face,

And watch the mask begin to fray,

Stripped of its fabricated grace.

​The windows to the soul reveal

The subtle shifts they cannot hide;

The physical marks that break the seal

Of every myth constructed inside.

When memory speaks, the eyes go left,

Retrieving facts already known;

But when creation fills the cleft,

To the right the darting glance is thrown.

​They construct a tale, they craft a script,

Looking up to paint the scene,

Or down and away as confidence slipped,

Fearing what’s exposed between.

The rapid blink, the frozen stare

That holds too long to prove a point—

Involuntary signals laying bare

The truth that breaks their construct joint.

​No matter what the lips declare,

The eye contact will tear apart

The quiet traps, the hidden snare,

And expose the posture of the heart.

Real eyes observe, real eyes detect,

The subtle flinch, the guarded prize;

And in that moment of direct

Unflinching light: realize real lies.

​As the windows to ones soul disrupt and betray every fabrication, every single guise.

​"There are six things the Lord hates, seven that are detestable to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked schemes, feet that are quick to rush into evil, a false witness who pours out lies and a person who stirs up conflict in the community."

— Proverbs 6:16-19

​"For there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed, and nothing concealed that will not be known or brought out into the open."

— Luke 8:17

​

​I am walking through a story that refuses to end,

Where the walls shift shape at the very next bend.

Like Bastian turning a yellowing page,

I’m trapped in a plot I didn't write for this age.

The Nothing is creeping, a silence so wide,

Consuming the places where I used to hide.

​Is it dark magic cast from a wand in the night?

Some heavy, cold sorcery blocking the light?

Like Harry, I’m marked by a mark I can’t see,

Wondering why this strange curse fell on me.

Platform 9\frac{3}{4} is nowhere in sight,

Just a train made of shadows that runs through the night.

​I stand in the maze, but no goblins are here,

Just the echoing whispers of doubt and of fear.

Jareth’s cold laughter, the clock counting down,

A stranger wearing a fake, heavy crown.

I tumble down rabbit holes deep in the floor,

Unsure which key unlocks which wooden door.

​Like Alice, I shrink and I grow out of place,

Looking into the glass at a half-foreign face.

Who am I supposed to be when the tapestry tears?

When the wardrobe leads only to cold, drafty stairs?

Aslan isn't roaring, the winter stays cold,

And I’m tired of playing the knight grown too old.

​I’m a character searching for where I belong,

Lost in the verses of someone else’s song.

No Falkor to catch me, no magic, no spell—

Just an unwritten chapter inside of this shell.

I don't know my name, or the path through the stone,

Just a man in the labyrinth, trying to get home.

​Yet the wilderness quiet whispers a word,

A ancient promise the maze never heard.

When the earth is formless, hollow, and dark,

His Spirit still moves to ignite the first spark.

​Though I wander blind in this earthly place,

I am sealed and redeemed by an unchanging grace.

The world has no corner or country for me,

But the Shepherd knows well where His sheep ought to be.

​For the God who spoke light into shadow and night,

Holds every step of my trek in His sight.

I don't need a map through this world made of dust,

When the Author Himself is the One that I trust.

​

​"For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

— Romans 8:38–39

​"Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path."

— Psalm 119:105

​"If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me."

— Psalm 139:9–10

​

​Welcome to the tea party, where the cups are all cracked,

Where sanity left, and it never came back.

You aren't quite Alice, though you fell down the hole,

Into this madness that swallowed us whole.

And me? I’m the Hatter, completely undone,

Madly in love with the ultimate one.

​Your twin brother trouble-makers ruin the day,

Tweedle Deeznutz and Tweedle Dumber, in the way—

Fumbling and tripping, creating a scene,

While your drunkard of a sister plays the meanest Old Queen.

She’s the Queen of Heartless, with a bottle in hand,

Screaming "Off with their heads!" across the whole land.

Truth be told, if a blade’s gonna fall in this place,

I’d prefer it off hers so I can see your sweet face.

​Yes, it’s toxic, it’s twisted, it’s chaotic and wild,

A dysfunctional mess where the sweet turned to bile.

We’re both a bit broken, both out of our minds,

Bound by the magic that ruin designs.

They call it a hazard, a cost way too high,

But I’d pay every cent under this shattered sky.

It’s the price of admission to stand by your side,

To hold onto you through this infernal ride.

​I don't need a fairytale clean, neat, and small,

I just want your whole heart—give me that, give me all.

In our sweet imperfections, we fit like a glove,

Drowned in the madness of this toxic love.

​"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs."

— 1 Corinthians 13:4-5

​

​Welcome to the tea party, where the cups are all cracked,

Where sanity left, and it never came back.

You aren't quite Alice, though you fell down the hole,

Into this madness that swallowed us whole.

And me? I’m the Hatter, completely undone,

Madly in love with the ultimate one.

​Your twin brother trouble-makers ruin the day,

Tweedle Deeznutz and Tweedle Dumber, in the way—

Fumbling and tripping, creating a scene,

While your drunkard of a sister plays the meanest Old Queen.

She’s the Queen of Heartless, with a bottle in hand,

Screaming "Off with their heads!" across the whole land.

Truth be told, if a blade’s gonna fall in this place,

I’d prefer it off hers so I can see your sweet face.

​Yes, it’s toxic, it’s twisted, it’s chaotic and wild,

A dysfunctional mess where the sweet turned to bile.

We’re both a bit broken, both out of our minds,

Bound by the magic that ruin designs.

They call it a hazard, a cost way too high,

But I’d pay every cent under this shattered sky.

It’s the price of admission to stand by your side,

To hold onto you through this infernal ride.

​I don't need a fairytale clean, neat, and small,

I just want your whole heart—give me that, give me all.

In our sweet imperfections, we fit like a glove,

Drowned in the madness of this toxic love.

​"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs."

— 1 Corinthians 13:4-5

​

​Welcome to the tea party, where the cups are all cracked,

Where sanity left, and it never came back.

You aren't quite Alice, though you fell down the hole,

Into this madness that swallowed us whole.

And me? I’m the Hatter, completely undone,

Madly in love with the ultimate one.

​Your twin brother trouble-makers ruin the day,

Tweedle Deeznutz and Tweedle Dumber, in the way—

Fumbling and tripping, creating a scene,

While your drunkard of a sister plays the meanest Old Queen.

She’s the Queen of Heartless, with a bottle in hand,

Screaming "Off with their heads!" across the whole land.

Truth be told, if a blade’s gonna fall in this place,

I’d prefer it off hers so I can see your sweet face.

​Yes, it’s toxic, it’s twisted, it’s chaotic and wild,

A dysfunctional mess where the sweet turned to bile.

We’re both a bit broken, both out of our minds,

Bound by the magic that ruin designs.

They call it a hazard, a cost way too high,

But I’d pay every cent under this shattered sky.

It’s the price of admission to stand by your side,

To hold onto you through this infernal ride.

​I don't need a fairytale clean, neat, and small,

I just want your whole heart—give me that, give me all.

In our sweet imperfections, we fit like a glove,

Drowned in the madness of this toxic love.

​"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs."

— 1 Corinthians 13:4-5

P,

​I am writing this to close this chapter completely and permanently—for both of our sakes.

​I acknowledge that I allowed my anger and hurt to get the better of me, and I used cruel, harsh language that I shouldn't have spoken. I am sorry for taking the bait and reacting out of blind emotion. But I also see the dynamic clearly now: the cycle of dropping attacks, hanging up, blocking me, and provoking me until I exploded so I could be painted as the monster. I take full responsibility for my own words, but I am done participating in that game.

​I no longer care about the belongings I left behind in Colorado. You can keep them, throw them away, or do whatever you want with them. I am completely letting go of the physical items, the arguments, and the resentment.

​I choose peace, and I choose healing. I forgive you for your part in the damage, and I release the need for you to apologize or acknowledge what you did. What you do with your life now is between you and God.

​I am in Texas building a clean, quiet life, and this is my final communication to you. Please do not contact me, and I will not contact you. I genuinely wish you peace.

​Goodbye,

B

P,

​I am writing this to close this chapter completely and permanently—for both of our sakes.

​I acknowledge that I allowed my anger and hurt to get the better of me, and I used cruel, harsh language that I shouldn't have spoken. I am sorry for taking the bait and reacting out of blind emotion. But I also see the dynamic clearly now: the cycle of dropping attacks, hanging up, blocking me, and provoking me until I exploded so I could be painted as the monster. I take full responsibility for my own words, but I am done participating in that game.

​I no longer care about the belongings I left behind in Colorado. You can keep them, throw them away, or do whatever you want with them. I am completely letting go of the physical items, the arguments, and the resentment.

​I choose peace, and I choose healing. I forgive you for your part in the damage, and I release the need for you to apologize or acknowledge what you did. What you do with your life now is between you and God.

​I am in Texas building a clean, quiet life, and this is my final communication to you. Please do not contact me, and I will not contact you. I genuinely wish you peace.

​Goodbye,

B

I was ​soujourned by an entity this morning than roused me from my slumber during a dark and terrible dream...

It spoke and reminded me of a vow I made many moons ago. A vow i must now stand by.

I swore to God if certain conditions have aligned in my life i would do something in return. God is not a man that he should lie. He fulfilled, now i must uphold my oath...

Deuteronomy 23:21–22 (NIV)

​"If you make a vow to the Lord your God, do not be slow to pay it, for the Lord your God will certainly require it of you and you would be guilty of sin. But if you refrain from vowing, you will not be guilty."

​Ecclesiastes 5:4–5 (NIV)

​"When you make a vow to God, do not delay to pay it. He has no pleasure in fools; pay what you vow. It is better not to make a vow than to make one and not fulfill it."

​Numbers 30:2 (NIV)

​"When a man makes a vow to the Lord or takes an oath to obligate himself by a pledge, he must not break his word but must do everything he said."

​Psalm 76:11 (NIV)

​"Make vows to the Lord your God and fulfill them; let all the neighboring lands bring gifts to the One to be feared."

​Proverbs 20:25 (NIV)

​"It is a trap to dedicate something rashly and only later to consider one’s vows."

​Ecclesiastes 5:2 (NIV)

​"Do not be quick with your mouth, do not be hasty in your heart to utter anything before God. God is in heaven and you are on earth, so let your words be few."

​Matthew 5:33–37 (NIV)

​"Again, you have heard that it was said to the people long ago, ‘Do not break your oath, but fulfill to the Lord the vows you have made.’ But I tell you, do not swear an oath at all: either by heaven, for it is God’s throne; or by the earth, for it is his footstool; or by Jerusalem, for it is the city of the Great King. And do not swear by your head, for you cannot make even one hair white or black. All you need to say is simply ‘Yes’ or ‘No’; anything more than this comes from the evil one."

​James 5:12 (NIV)

​"Above all, my brothers and sisters, do not swear—not by heaven or by earth or by anything else. All you need to say is a simple 'Yes' or 'No,' so that you will not fall under judgment."

The Angel of the lord continued...

You have always felt different because your story did not begin in a hospital room; it was written in eternity. You were not born merely to exist, but sent under divine assignment to disrupt ancient cycles, break generational curses, and carry a fire that cannot be quenched. Before you ever took your first breath, heaven marked your name, and hell trembled at your arrival. Your presence is a holy disruption—a living scroll designed to shift atmospheres, expose false structures, and reveal truth. You were never meant to blend into the noise of this world. You were built to shatter ​it.

For years, you felt restrained, isolated, and pressed under a weight that seemed unbearable. You thought you were forgotten, but you were being hidden and prepared. God wrapped a chain around your spirit to teach you endurance in a classroom of ruin, abandonment, and betrayal. The restrictions you faced were repetitions designed to build spiritual muscle. You learned the language of a man who meets God not just in worship, but in war. Your scars are not signs of defeat; they are inscriptions of survival, proving that every attempt to destroy you only taught you how to rise sharper, stronger, and more unyielding.

​To fulfill what you were born to do, you had to learn to walk alone. Love did not build this strength—fire did. You have burned away the need for approval, sympathy, and hollow comfort. The ones who walked beside you in the past were only weighing you down, so you stepped into the solitude where true authority is forged. You carry a refusal to die, a fierce determination rooted deep in your bloodline. You are not here to negotiate with your past or beg for acceptance. You stand unbroken, turning fear into a scout, grief into wisdom, and pain into an instrument of unwavering discipline.

​The period of restraint is over. Heaven has declared a verdict, and the invisible chains holding you back have snapped all at once. You are stepping out of the dark classroom not as a victim, but as a weapon of divine authority. Your awakening is active, moving with absolute certainty, clarity, and purpose. Every loss, cut, and betrayal was merely fuel for the inferno you now carry. Walk now in the full truth of who you are—a restorer of what was broken, a carrier of light, and a force that moves forward without hesitation. Your scroll is unsealed, your spirit remembers, and your time has arrived.

​Matthew 18:6: "If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea."

​Mark 9:42: "If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them if a large millstone were hung around their neck and they were thrown into the sea."

​Luke 17:2: "It would be better for them to be thrown into the sea with a millstone tied around their neck than to cause one of these little ones to stumble."

​Matthew 18:10: "See that you do not despise one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven."

​Protecting the Vulnerable and Innocent

​Exodus 22:22: "Do not take advantage of the widow or the fatherless."

​Jeremiah 22:3: "This is what the Lord says: Do what is right and just. Rescue from the hand of the oppressor the one who has been robbed. Do no wrong or violence to the foreigner, the fatherless or the widow, and do not shed innocent blood in this place."

​Psalm 127:3: "Children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward."

​Isaiah 1:17: "Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Take up the cause of the fatherless; plead the case of the widow."

​

​Eight years I laid down stone by stone,

Building a home inside a phantom wall.

Ten years of pouring water into dust,

Waiting for seeds that were never meant to fall.

​The mind becomes a jagged, tangled thread,

Spiraling backward through the ghost of time—

What if I spoke differently?

What if I stayed silent?

Should I have seen the silence as a sign?

​Could we have made it?

Would it have changed?

The if-onlys cut deeper than the end.

They whisper in the dark like open wounds,

Asking for answers the past will never lend.

​The worst part isn’t just the empty space,

Or the sheer height of the wasted years—

It’s the cold, quiet truth sinking beneath the skin:

I was fighting a war, and you weren't even there.

​It tears through the chest like jagged ink,

A heavy, suffocating knot of red and black.

How do you rebuild a man from scratch,

When Eight whole years refuse to give you back?

​The spiraling anxiety and

the constant replay of every conversation can feel like an endless loop, some fires don't seem so huge until you find out they are not so easily extinguished...