My name is Douglas Reed. I'm 21 years old and I am kid in the kingdom of God. Am I perfect? no. Does He love me anyways? Always. I would say knowing God is the outstanding characteristic of my life. Everything else is for me to know and you to find out.
Why does it feel like God slaps me in the face after I read any of his poems?
The Bride- Levi The Poet
If misery loves company (and isn’t that why you clung to me?)
let’s all come together and we’ll a call it a church
put a few people on a pedestal and they can tell us why we hurt
and I will hold these people with such high esteem that
(o my god, if you fail, you fail the whole machine)
aren’t we all just wolves in sheep’s clothing?
shepherd, tend to your flock, but look out for the beast
she’s a mean one, you see
she’s beautiful, she’s ugly, her lips taste like honey
and she’s been eyeing you the way that she’s been eyeing me
but my costume is so clean!
I finally tucked my claws inside of my little feet
and I’m standing so proud and haughty!
But I lost interest in your bride (that body)
when I stopped recognizing the groom in the congregation
Ephesus! Where is that love?
What it’s this uninviting, apprehensive sensation?
And when did our relationship become exclusive?
There is nothing new underneath that sun
but I will not succumb to be recruited
for the only army that shoots the wounded
(I would rather be the wounded)
I AM THE WOUNDED!
O, the church is a whore, but she’s still my mother
(and I try to love her) God knows I love her!
I am her.
Better to lose an arm or a leg
(yeah!) to cast out anything that’s gonna cause you to fail again
if I wasn’t such a sucker for pain,
I would’ve gouged out my eyes nine years ago, today
and no need to worry about me pointing out your flaws
I don’t got a speck in my eye, I’ve got a frickin’ log
and I am not strong enough to cut it off
(but I’m not trusting enough to hand someone else the saw)
So it’s the blind disagreeing with the blind, about sight
and it’s the mute screaming at the deaf (with all his might)
about wrong and right
“I’ve got a novel full of excuses
about why I left the bride,
and they’re all justified!”
through broken penmanship and crooked lines
“I AM ENTIRELY BITTER INSIDE”
and I need somebody wiser to differentiate between truths and lies
and pray my calloused heart beats steady,
I’m pretty good at forgiving, but I’d like to start forgetting
and I’m tired of the rats eating my harp string
I miss the unity in the sound of her voice when she’d sing:
“I’m coming back to the heart of worship,
and it’s all about You. It’s all about You, Jesus.
I’m sorry, Lord, for the things that I make it and
It’s all about You. It’s all about You, Jesus.”
And she may be that harlot but she has a lot to teach me,
and if love keeps no record of wrongs then I want to love completely
And she may be that harlot, but she is still my mother,
and my father loves his bride like he loves no other.
and I am gonna love her
I am her.
I was thinking about this last night. I realized that the only relationships I would consider giving another chance are the ones that I’ve ended.