The Thoughts I Swear Are Mine

The Thoughts I Swear Are Mine

I wake up swinging before my feet hit the floor

Heart on guard like it’s been here before

Every sound a threat, every glance a test

Every breath measured—no time to rest

Coffee tastes like worry, news tastes like war

Even silence feels loud to the core

I call it instinct, I call it “me”

But it’s always choosing who I should be

Fight if I’m cornered, flee if I’m weak

Win the argument, or don’t even speak

Every memory sharpened into a blade

Every joy taxed, every pleasure delayed

I swear these thoughts are mine alone

Built of flesh and blood and bone

Don’t tell me different, don’t cross that line

Ain’t nobody telling me these ain’t mine

But watch it closer—real slow, real tight

Same reactions morning and night

Same heat in the chest, same closing jaw

Same story repeated like unbroken law

It tastes like fear with a prideful grin

Smells like control dressed up as “win”

Feels like pressure behind the eyes

Like I must defend just to stay alive

Then one day—nothing holy or bright

Just tired of losing the same damn fight

I see the anger before it speaks

See the panic before it peaks

And for one small breath—thin as air—

I’m not inside it… I’m watching it there

The thought still shouts, the feeling still roars

But I’m not pinned to the floor anymore

No fireworks, no haloed sound

Just a little space where I’m not bound

The ego screams, “GET BACK IN LINE”

Because it knows… it’s losing time

Not dying, not broken, not cast away

Just no longer ruling every day

And in that crack—so quiet, so small—

I don’t need to fight

I don’t need to fall

There’s a taste I’ve never known before

Not victory, not settling a score

It’s soft like water, steady and warm

Not shaped by fear, not needing form

No enemy here, no self to defend

No story to win, no point to bend

Just life moving through what I used to claim

And suddenly nothing needs a name

That’s when love shows up without a sound

Not as a prize—but as solid ground

And I finally see, with no disguise…

The thoughts still come

They’re just not who I am.

Torn Between Desire and Fate

Torn between desire and fate

Filled with rage and hate

Wanting to break totally free

From all this evil inside of me

I wake up tired before the day begins

Fighting the weight of my wants and sins

Bills on the table, blame in my head

Words I regret that I wish I never said

I say I want truth, but I bargain for ease

I pray for connection, then beg for my peace

I swear I’m done running, then turn at the gate

Cursing the road while I tempt my own fate

The ego screams loud, “This pain isn’t fair”

It counts every loss and keeps perfect repair

It says, “You deserve more—why suffer this way?”

So I feed it excuses and call it a day

But somewhere between the collapse and the cry

A quieter question slips gently by

“If not for yourself, then who will you be

When the work demands honesty?”

I start to see cracks where the light gets in

Not fixing the mess, just owning the sin

I stop asking why this weight is mine

And ask how to walk it one step at a time

The rage slows down, becomes something raw

Not a weapon to swing, but a truth that I saw

The hate turns inward, then loosens its grip

When I stop demanding the world make the shift

And then—without warning, without a sign—

I feel a warmth that was never mine

Not earned by effort, not bought by pain

But waiting between us again and again

There is none else here—no blame, no foe

Every push, every pull was You all along, I know

My part was never to win or be strong

Only to choose You when I was wrong

So take this heart, still shaking, still torn

Still learning how to be newly born

I bring You my effort, my will, my plea

And You give back love that carries me

Not because I’m pure, or finished, or wise

But because You were there behind my cries

And in that love, steady and true,

I finally rest—between me and You.

If Not Me Then Who

If Not Me, Then Who

In the beginning of the work

I wake before the light,

Hands already clenched in habit,

Bracing for another fight.

If I am not for me, then who?

No voice replaces mine,

No one carries my resistance,

No one crosses this line.

The day collects its payment first,

Bills, bodies, time, and pride,

I promise I’ll be better today—

By noon, that promise died.

I speak of faith with a bitter tongue,

Say “trust” but check the lock,

I pray for light while guarding

Every corner of my stock.

I want the end without the road,

The crown without the fall,

I want to love without surrender,

To give without losing at all.

The ego does not go quietly,

It fights like it’s the truth,

It calls surrender weakness

And humility abuse.

It counts my hours, tracks my gain,

Keeps score of every slight,

It says, “Protect yourself first,”

Then calls that wisdom, not fear, not fright.

This stage is dry and unforgiving,

No poetry, no glow,

Just teeth clenched through responsibility

With nowhere else to go.

---

Somewhere between the grind and grief,

Between collapse and breath,

I notice effort does not save me—

But it moves me toward depth.

My thoughts aren’t innocent anymore,

They carry weight and aim,

Each one bends my direction slightly,

Feeds a different flame.

Effort isn’t changing heaven,

It’s tuning where I stand,

Like leaning into the wind just right

So the sail might catch command.

The action doesn’t build the road,

That path was always there,

But effort adds velocity

To how I travel it—aware.

Each choice adds acceleration,

Each refusal slows the pace,

I learn that neutrality is fantasy,

Stillness only masks escape.

I fall, I rise, I misalign,

I curse and then I pray,

But now the work feels less like punishment

And more like how I stay.

I start to sense a partnership,

Not spoken, not declared,

Where effort meets a hidden Hand

That was always there.

---

And then the ending comes disguised

As something very small:

The need to own the outcome

Finally starts to fall.

There is none else besides Him—

Not after I give in,

But after every effort shows me

I was never acting alone to begin.

My work did not replace Him,

It revealed where He stood,

Waiting behind my resistance

Like love always would.

This love doesn’t flatter ego,

Doesn’t rush or demand,

It lets me break, lets me fail,

Then quietly takes my hand.

It forgives before I finish sinning,

Waits longer than my doubt,

Fills the space where “me” once ruled

Until “we” quietly breaks out.

I see now nothing was wasted—

Not anger, not delay,

Every step I took “for me”

Was guiding me this way.

I was never pushed aside,

Never left to fend alone,

I was taught to move, to choose, to try

Until effort led me home.

If not me, then who—to act.

There is none else—so trust.

The System (Transformed)

 The System (Transformed)

The system is beautiful—until it breaks your spine,

Perfect in design, cruel in its timing divine.

It hands you victories just to watch them decay,

Then asks who you’ll be when the comfort’s stripped away.

We learn what to expect, or so we pretend,

Until the lesson demands what we refuse to bend.

Together we promise we won’t look away,

Yet neglect creeps in softly, day after day.

Highs lift us up till we swear we can fly,

Lows come at night with no reason why.

The sages warned us—this road cuts deep,

Not a path for the strong, but for those who can weep.

Through writings we read and experiences we feel,

We swear we see truth, we swear it’s real.

Then life peels the mask, slow and precise,

And shows us our faith was a bargain, not price.

Climbing over the ego—don’t dress it as pain,

It’s choking on pride while screaming for gain.

Every step upward costs something you love,

Every demand comes stamped from above.

Faith above reason sounds holy and clean,

Until reason is screaming at what it has seen.

When logic collapses and answers all fail,

That’s where the work starts—raw, naked, and frail.

So come one, come all—but don’t lie at the gate,

This trip isn’t comfort, it’s pressure and weight.

You will fall, you will beg, you will question your name,

You’ll curse the system and still stay in the game.

The experiments aren’t theory, they carve into flesh,

They expose every motive you thought was “enmeshed.”

Every place the ego hides gets dragged to the light,

Not gently, not kindly—but brutally right.

And when you’re stripped down with nothing to claim,

No credit, no merit, no spiritual fame,

You’ll find what was missing, what knocked at the door:

Not answers—but brothers, and something much more.

So step through, my friends, not proud, not assured,

Only broken enough to be truly secured.

The system won’t save you—this much is true,

But between us, the Light finally breaks through.

Full Like A Pomegranate

 

“FULL LIKE A POMEGRANATE”

I filled my hands with holy deeds and prayer,

Stacked mitzvot high like I was going somewhere.

Counted my steps, my pages, every move,

Certain the weight of effort proved the proof.

But late at night when no one else was near,

A quiet voice exposed the lie I feared.

Not what I did—but why I always came,

Not love of Him, just love of my own name.

I gave, I learned, I sang, I bowed my head,

But fed myself with every word I said.

Each act was dressed in light, so clean, so bright,

Yet underneath it all—I served my bite.

A pomegranate split, so full, so red,

Each seed a deed I proudly thought I fed.

But juice of deceit ran down my hands,

I saw the truth I couldn’t countermand.

I wanted Him to serve the life I chose,

To bless my plans, reward my righteous pose.

I worked for pay, for peace, for holy gain,

And called the bargain “faith,” and hid the chain.

Then mercy struck—no thunder, no escape,

Just seeing clearly my own twisted shape.

I couldn’t fix it, couldn’t climb or try,

My strength collapsed, my prayers learned to cry.

Now empty stands the man who did so much,

No coin of merit left for him to clutch.

Yet in this ruin something true is born:

A need so real it tears the veil I wore.

If this is hell, then let it burn me clean,

For now I know what “Israel” must mean.

Not full of deeds, but broken, bare, and true—

Needing the One who alone can make me new.

---

The Road To February

 The Road to February

He marked the date and closed his eyes,

A distant land, a hidden prize.

February whispered soft and real,

A pull he could not help but feel.

But months before the ticket’s name,

The world leaned hard, the fire became flame.

Work piled up, the hours grew long,

Every step forward felt somehow wrong.

Money tightened like a clenched fist,

Bills lined up, no room to miss.

A newborn cried through sleepless nights,

Love was full—but heavy the fights.

His wife spoke truth with fear, not blame,

“A child needs you—this isn’t a game.”

Her words cut deep, not sharp but fair,

Responsibility thick in the air.

Inside his heart the question burned,

Is this desire selfish or earned?

He didn’t answer, didn’t pretend,

He went instead—to the Ten, his friends.

He didn’t ask for coins or ease,

He asked for strength, for what to see.

He laid it bare, the doubt, the load,

The fear of failing both paths he rode.

They didn’t promise, didn’t plan,

They held his heart like only friends can.

They raised the goal, the why, the flame,

Reminded him he’s not alone in the pain.

And time moved on, as time will do,

Still unclear—but something grew.

Extra hours, unexpected calls,

Walls gave way that once stood tall.

Work aligned without demand,

Money showed up—not in his hand,

But right on time, exact, precise,

Like mercy dressed in normal life.

And then one night, no lesson taught,

No argument, no pressure brought,

His wife sat down, looked in his eyes,

And love replaced the old replies.

She said, “I see what this means to you,

I see what it pulls your heart to do.

You should go—Israel is your place,

I won’t stand in love’s way.”

He didn’t cheer, he didn’t speak,

Tears fell quiet, strong and weak.

Not victory, not being right—

Just gratitude flooding the night.

For the road was hard, the cost was real,

Every doubt something he had to feel.

But nothing was forced, nothing torn,

Only faith refined, reshaped, reborn.

And as February drew near at last,

He packed not escape—but a path.

Carrying pressure, joy, and fear,

Knowing the Creator was already there.

Not waiting in Israel, not far away—

But in every step that led him that way.

How does one choose a new group

How does one choose a new group

it feels like looking into alphabet soup

i know it don’t mean to find new friends

so how does one truly begin

not by faces, not by names

not by comfort, warmth, or claims

not by who makes room for me

but who bows to unity

i step in quiet, without demand

no flag raised in my hand

i don’t ask who welcomes me

i ask where pride won’t let me be

i listen more than i explain

let confusion work its grain

where resistance starts to rise

truth is closer than my eyes

no promises carved in stone

just showing up, unknown

if i can serve the aim, not self

that’s the first brick on the shelf

and if the road feels thin and bare

that’s how i know the work is there

Covered In Love

 

Covered in Love

Ok let’s get real here, no masks, no disguise,

We see the path for what it is, no smoke in our eyes.

We see just how to give, not loud, not above,

But quiet annulment, all covered in love.

We ran for so long with a fist held tight,

Calling it strength, calling it fight.

Now we see strength is learning to bend,

Choosing the Ten again and again.

The ego cries out, afraid to be small,

Afraid it might lose, afraid it might fall.

But love steps in where fear once stood,

Whispering softly: this is good.

We don’t give sermons, we don’t correct,

We give our hearts with full self-respect.

Not fixing the friend, not judging the pain,

Just holding the place where the Light can remain.

The Creator isn’t found in what I achieve,

But in what I release, in what I leave.

Between us, a space begins to breathe,

And love becomes something we actually see.

No one is late, no one is wrong,

Some carry the tune, some hum along.

Each soul arrives by a different door,

But the room we’re building is one heart, one floor.

This is the path, simple and severe,

Cancel myself so the friends appear.

And in that space where “me” lets go,

The Creator rises… gentle and slow.

From My Heart It Swears

From My Heart It Swears

From my heart it swears

No matter what I do I’m blocked there

I know it’s a lie

It’s a sign I must try

No matter the why

I ask for help this day

Only to feel rejected in every way

Each door feels shut in my face

Each prayer falls flat in space

But I know this pain ain’t random fire

It’s the Creator shaping my desire

This wall ain’t built to make me fall

It’s built to teach me where to call

Not inward, not alone

Not king, not on a throne

But into the friends, into the ten

Where my heart learns how to bend

The ego screams, “You’re cast aside”

But that’s the lie it learned to hide

Because rejection cuts the pride

So truth can grow where love abides

If I’m blocked, it’s not the way

It’s the “me” that wants to stay

This lock won’t break by force or might

Only by choosing us over right

So I don’t curse this empty prayer

I don’t run from the deadened air

I bring my lack, naked and true

And place it softly into you

And there — between our shared despair

A crack appears inside the wall

Not in my heart, not in my head

But between us — where Light is bred

That’s where the answer always was

Not mercy earned, not wages paid

But love assembled piece by piece

Until the block itself is prayed

Between Us

 Between Us 

We were born in a story we didn’t write,

Thrown into the day, pushed into the night.

Parents, towns, and roads we roam,

Chasing a feeling we call “home.”

We grind, we build, we laugh, we fall,

Buy the dream, then outgrow it all.

New car shine, leather seat thrill,

Till the hunger returns—unpaid bill.

Anger flares when the road cuts tight,

Ego jumps up ready to fight.

“I'm right, you’re wrong,” the old refrain,

Same old script, different pain.

The heart ain’t flesh, it’s want and need,

Two vessels pulling at top speed.

One grabs pleasure, never full,

One waits quiet, barely a pulse.

That spark don’t grow alone, no way,

It needs resistance, needs the fray.

Friends collide, egos scream,

And in that mess—a higher dream.

We don’t fix ourselves, that’s the lie,

The Light shows up when we try

To hold the goal when we can’t stand,

Leaning hard on another hand.

Arvut ain’t words, it’s law and fact,

Fall alone? You don’t come back.

But together we bend, together we rise,

A place where the Creator opens His eyes.

The Campaign Between lives

“The Campaign Between Lives”

We stand between the lives we’ve known,

Between the seeds already sown,

Between what died, what comes alive,

Between the will that won’t survive.

We see the states both dark and bright,

Called death by day, called life by night,

No place to run, no camp to flee,

This war is waged internally.

Persistence pulls us thread by thread,

Through all the living and the dead,

Each step returns us to the flow,

An endless path we come to know.

I pray for you, you pray for me,

No self remains, no “I,” no “he,”

Each works the other’s broken plea,

Till all are answered—eternally.

Who Presses Send

---

Who Presses Send

I didn’t wake up holy, I woke up late,

Phone buzzing debts, another sealed fate.

Coffee tastes bitter, mirror won’t lie,

I ask what’s wrong, but I don’t ask why.

I try to be good, I try to be strong,

But every intention bends itself wrong.

I say “Creator, help,” then rush my day,

Forgetting the words before they decay.

I think I decide when to finally pray,

When pain gets loud or hope runs away.

But the cracks showed up before I could choose,

Like a script already written, I just read the cues.

The what wasn’t money, or peace, or relief,

It was seeing my heart as a professional thief.

Stealing the moment, the credit, the light,

Calling it freedom while losing the fight.

The when wasn’t planned, wasn’t marked on a chart,

It came when the ego ran out of smart.

When excuses collapsed and the mask finally slipped,

That’s when the prayer got honest, not scripted.

The where wasn’t church, or lesson, or room,

It was inside the wreckage, the dust, the gloom.

Between who I wanted to be and who I became,

In that narrow space where nothing’s to blame.

And the who… that one shattered my pride,

Because I wasn’t the author standing outside.

I didn’t start crying because I was wise,

I cried because Someone removed my disguise.

The Creator didn’t wait for me to be clean,

He built the mess so I’d finally see.

He caused the lack, the fall, the delay,

So the prayer would be real when it found its way.

I thought prayer was words, said right, said well,

But it’s the scream that escapes when the ego fails.

Not spoken by lips, not polished or neat,

But born when desire admits defeat.

And the Ten—God help me, they weren’t the crowd,

They were the mirror that spoke too loud.

Every friend reflected what I wouldn’t face,

Until my prayer lost its personal place.

Because the prayer wasn’t for me, that’s the crime,

It was for us, in this broken time.

For one heart stitched from pieces and scars,

Not asking for comfort—but resemblance to stars.

So who causes the prayer?

Not the mouth, not the mind,

But the One who breaks you with surgical kindness in time.

He pulls every string, every fall, every bend,

Until your heart finally presses Send.

One Shared 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

“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 like dawn after rain,

Even if inside I’m screaming in pain.

Because the slate is wiped—not by time—

But when I lift him, and he lifts mine.

Yesterday I faced a mountain too tall,

Ego roaring, ready to let me fall.

Today the same mountain shrinks to dust—

Not by my strength, but the friends I trust.

They didn’t argue, they didn’t explain,

They didn’t echo my doubts and pain.

They gave me a mood, a pulse, a start—

They believed for me with a borrowed heart.

This is the crime we repeat each day:

We come to receive, then get in the way.

We forget the law written sharp and plain—

The society lives or dies by what we bring.

So I stand accused—and I stand in love,

Because this demand descends from Above.

To be a place where a friend can say:

“Now I begin—today’s a new day.”

Not because the path suddenly cleared,

But because the Ten made courage appear.

And if I fail, then let this be true:

I will fail trying to give life to you.

And when we do this—man to man—

The mountain bows, the work begins.

The Creator smiles, unseen yet near,

Because hope walked in—and He followed here.

Standing for The Creator

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”

 

 “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 don’t feel the same.

There’s lines in the road—some you don’t cross,

Some you can walk but you feel the cost.

Some deeds are holy even done half-blind,

And some are empty if self’s on the mind.

Lo Lishma still walks toward the door,

Slow as hell—but it gets there for sure.

But Lishma? That sticks like bone to bone,

Each step tighter—till you’re never alone.

So don’t ask Heaven to spoil your plate,

Ask for a heart that can carry the weight.

Because when bestowal becomes who you are,

You inherit the table, the Light, and the star.

---

שִׁיר – עברית (Hebrew)

לא זזים בלי מנוחה בקצה הדרך,

לא פועלים בלי שכר שמרגיש בטוח.

זה לא עצלות—זה שורש קדום,

בורא בלי תנועה, בלי שינוי, בלי שום פגם.

הרצון לקבל הוא כל מה שנברא,

אז למה האור מחכה ולא נכנס כבר?

כי קבלה לעצמי צורבת בפנים,

בלי השתוות הצורה—זה נשאר חסר טעם בפנים.

אז הצמצום בא מאהבה מדויקת,

לא להסתיר—רק ללמד איך מקבלים באמת.

אז מה השכר? לא עונג, לא אור,

רק כלים להשפעה—וזה כל הסיפור.

לא האור—תן לי מסך יציב,

לא התענוג—תן לי לב שמקריב.

אור חוזר, כוונה זכה,

שאקבל רק כדי לשמח אותך.

יש אסור, מותר, ויש מצווה,

יש בלי כוונה ויש לשמה.

לא לשמה—זה לא אבוד,

אבל לשמה—שם נדבקים בייחוד.

אז אל תבקש תשלום מהשמיים,

בקש ידיים שיודעות להשפיע באמת.

כי כשיש כלים של נתינה בלב,