It is a wonderful piece of writing. I am afraid that I misunderstood, but it translates to me as writing to you is a work of love. Hard, full of obstacles but always worth it.
Fabulous imagery. Your love for writing, for the unfolding stories is felt in every line. Beautifully written as always.
This is scripture forged in ink. Not a sermon, not a lecture, but a body dragged across the page until the blood itself learns grammar.
The fire you name isn’t metaphor. It’s the scorch that comes when work refuses to flatter and insists on truth. Every limp sentence is burned away until only the ones that can stand barefoot on thorns remain.
Keep climbing the ladder of words. The face of God isn’t in the temple. It flickers every time your pen strikes the stone and sparks.
Beautifully written. I love the ache and the peace I feel when someone captures the truth of what I wish I could say, but am not able to myself. Thank you.
As always , Joe. I love this this piece and how raw and bloody it is. A visceral embodiment of how it feels to be a writer or anyone in a creative space. In this other place where sometimes, the only way we know our emptiness still has a faint pulse is to take it with overwhelming force. Only the wounds will heal. A slow death of isolation devoid of human compassion, care, or for yourself, for your loved ones, for your beloved makes for the slow torture and certain death you came not to bring from my then life into this my now.
Danger of bringing whatever I think it is my hours can hold, not to go let go of being in this place of what is.
Your pieces lately are forged in how you faithfully show up, day after blessed day taking in more and more of the struggles, the pain that truth demands , with the building of your waiting rooms mean , and why you choose to martyr yourself at the altar of bloody devotion, day after day, from every dusk until dawn even , even in sleep.
You have helped bring me here to that open wound where the truth is often masked covered by the mask ok of a smile, and understanding, a surface devoid of what lies below. I have been here below. It feels good to walk though the space now.
Today is yet another offering to that which you hold so dear, the one thing that is sure, that proves itself to be real, true, jagged, and true again, no matter what the cost to your mind and your body. Your soul and your heart will always be.
I wonder how many times you have drug yourself, hands cut, scraped knees, across the crushed glass, of the prayers until they are.
Silent and unanswered auntil your calloused hands, burn beneath the charcoal fire. Layer upon layer on hot coals, excruciating, ungodly smoldering pain exposing tender newborn skin, layers of vulnerable places that lie beneath the charred epidermis fallen into the floor of your dark chambers.
One more deliberate strike dilutes not the intensity that soulls your sanctified blood all over the page, dripping with the lifeblood of tears and brine, salt of your soul, your lovers, your virgin bride arriving just in time tor the wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth while black birds portend what is yet to come. Glistening onyx, their small bodies circling in the sky just out of reach forming a circuitous roundabout. Kaybirds circling above, some within, some without, release their nighttime screeches. Their taunts blanket your bed, but there’s no warmth here. Are they keeping you awake at night, lone wolf?
The feel of the toil and sweat and blood willingly given by your body, your very soul itself,toiling over the scraps from the psyche, reaped with the sickles of the season, gathering cornmeal for muffins. Grain and barley from your fields nourish whole communities who enjoy the fruits of your labor, and the plump, sweet, plumbs from your trees.
I don’t know how you do it, but it is being done. Awesome.
It is a wonderful piece of writing. I am afraid that I misunderstood, but it translates to me as writing to you is a work of love. Hard, full of obstacles but always worth it.
Fabulous imagery. Your love for writing, for the unfolding stories is felt in every line. Beautifully written as always.
H.
Stunning! Today. No words. Just reverence.
Have you ever thought about setting some of your writing to music? Your lyrics scream for a melody.
This is scripture forged in ink. Not a sermon, not a lecture, but a body dragged across the page until the blood itself learns grammar.
The fire you name isn’t metaphor. It’s the scorch that comes when work refuses to flatter and insists on truth. Every limp sentence is burned away until only the ones that can stand barefoot on thorns remain.
Keep climbing the ladder of words. The face of God isn’t in the temple. It flickers every time your pen strikes the stone and sparks.
Beautifully written. I love the ache and the peace I feel when someone captures the truth of what I wish I could say, but am not able to myself. Thank you.
I love the idea of a pen dragging the words across the page. You never know what wake the ink will leave behind. ✌️❤️
Beautiful ❤️
As always , Joe. I love this this piece and how raw and bloody it is. A visceral embodiment of how it feels to be a writer or anyone in a creative space. In this other place where sometimes, the only way we know our emptiness still has a faint pulse is to take it with overwhelming force. Only the wounds will heal. A slow death of isolation devoid of human compassion, care, or for yourself, for your loved ones, for your beloved makes for the slow torture and certain death you came not to bring from my then life into this my now.
Danger of bringing whatever I think it is my hours can hold, not to go let go of being in this place of what is.
Your pieces lately are forged in how you faithfully show up, day after blessed day taking in more and more of the struggles, the pain that truth demands , with the building of your waiting rooms mean , and why you choose to martyr yourself at the altar of bloody devotion, day after day, from every dusk until dawn even , even in sleep.
You have helped bring me here to that open wound where the truth is often masked covered by the mask ok of a smile, and understanding, a surface devoid of what lies below. I have been here below. It feels good to walk though the space now.
Today is yet another offering to that which you hold so dear, the one thing that is sure, that proves itself to be real, true, jagged, and true again, no matter what the cost to your mind and your body. Your soul and your heart will always be.
I wonder how many times you have drug yourself, hands cut, scraped knees, across the crushed glass, of the prayers until they are.
Silent and unanswered auntil your calloused hands, burn beneath the charcoal fire. Layer upon layer on hot coals, excruciating, ungodly smoldering pain exposing tender newborn skin, layers of vulnerable places that lie beneath the charred epidermis fallen into the floor of your dark chambers.
One more deliberate strike dilutes not the intensity that soulls your sanctified blood all over the page, dripping with the lifeblood of tears and brine, salt of your soul, your lovers, your virgin bride arriving just in time tor the wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth while black birds portend what is yet to come. Glistening onyx, their small bodies circling in the sky just out of reach forming a circuitous roundabout. Kaybirds circling above, some within, some without, release their nighttime screeches. Their taunts blanket your bed, but there’s no warmth here. Are they keeping you awake at night, lone wolf?
The feel of the toil and sweat and blood willingly given by your body, your very soul itself,toiling over the scraps from the psyche, reaped with the sickles of the season, gathering cornmeal for muffins. Grain and barley from your fields nourish whole communities who enjoy the fruits of your labor, and the plump, sweet, plumbs from your trees.