Psalms In The Heart

Traveling through the city day after day seeing the lost love in every way wondering what’s next for those who don’t see how to relate to them the way things should be I watch them rush with eyes cast low carrying weights they’ll never show phones in their hands, hearts locked tight chasing small comforts to get through the night I’m no better, I bleed the same wear different masks, play the same game thinking I’m whole ‘cause I study and pray while ego still whispers, you’re fine—stay this way So how do I love them, cracked as I am with shaking knees and an empty plan not fixing their lives, not preaching the truth but standing beside them in borrowed youth Maybe it’s silence, maybe a glance maybe just giving the heart a chance to feel their burden as if it were mine and beg the Creator to stitch us in time No speeches, no flags, no winning the fight just choosing connection in plain daylight city keeps moving, lost love still stays but one shared heart can redeem our days

“A Clean Slate Between Us” We come to the Ten with a tired face, Dragging the week, the doubts, the race. Each one certain he’s failed again, Silent despair tucked under his skin. We sit together yet guard our pain, Speaking of storms, of loss, of strain. Not seeing how every careless word Can drain the life from a friend unheard. We say we came to give, to unite, Yet carry the night into the light. We forget the charge placed in our hand— To raise the hearts, not help them sink in sand. Because a friend does not need my truth If my truth strips him of strength and youth. He needs my fire, my borrowed breath, Not my poetry dressed up as death. The work is simple and cruelly clear: Bring life into what’s trembling with fear. Not wisdom, not depth, not clever lines— But hope that says, “You’re doing just fine.” To sit in the Ten is not to confess, It’s to cancel myself for the group’s success. If I leave him heavier than before, Then I robbed the society at its core. I must walk in li...

Standing for the Creator We work all day in this corporal life Pulled between hunger and heavenly strife Never asking, what’s the game? ’Cause every blow feels just the same Everything sent us is meant to mend The shattered will the heart must send Not to escape, not to defend, But face the place where cracks must bend No running off when strength runs thin, No holy mask to hide the sin When faith goes dry and hope feels dead, We stand on what the sages said No bargain struck, no deal for light, Just choosing truth in endless night The work is done where no one sees, Between the fear and bent knees Each breath a vow we never said, Each step a prayer the ego bled Not crowned below, not marked by fame, But known Above—by standing in His Name Not seen by day, not praised by way, Yet lighting worlds by how we stay

   “NOT THE PAYCHECK — THE HANDS”  (English) We don’t move unless there’s rest at the end, We won’t lift a finger unless something bends. It’s not laziness, no—this goes deeper than that, We’re built from a Root that never once had to act. Creation was born with a hunger inside, A will just to take, to be filled, satisfied. So why’s the table set, but the feast locked away? Why’s the Light knocking softly, but we can’t say “stay”? Because taking feels rotten when form’s not aligned, Receiving for self leaves a bad taste behind. So the Light pulled back—not from lack, not from fear, But to teach us how to receive without shame in the mirror. So what’s the reward? Not pleasure, not gold, Not blessings stacked high or stories retold. The paycheck is this—say it slow, say it true: Give me the hands that know how to give You. Not the feast—give me hunger that’s clean, Not the wine—give me vessels unseen. Give me screens, give me reflected flame, So when I receive, I do...