When She Finally Walks In

🔥 “When She Finally Walks In” — A Brutal Love Prayer Poem

I’ve walked through three lifetimes with rings on my hand,

learning how love falls apart like footprints in sand.

But the next one, Creator, let her be carved from Your flame,

a woman whose heart beats the same holy Name.

Let her beauty be radiant—both spirit and skin,

a woman who glows from the light found within.

No laziness dragging her steps through the day,

no dimness or dullness to get in the way.

Let her be strong, let her rise, let her walk by my side,

sharing this path, this ascent, this impossible ride.

Let her body be shaped like a blessing You send,

and her soul be the force that can finish my end.

May she match me in fire, intention, and pace,

her eyes burning truth when she looks at my face.

May her will be unbroken, her passion ablaze,

two sparks fused together in all of our days.

Let her hunger for unity, storms and all,

to rise when I rise and not let me fall.

Let her answer my heart when it trembles in night,

and join in the war to reveal Your great Light.

I don’t ask for perfection, but for a true pair—

a woman who fights for the love we will share.

This time let it last, let it root, let it mend,

a partner, a lover, a soul-woven friend.

If I am to serve You through love once again,

send the woman who mirrors the man I’ve become.

I ask without shame, without hiding, without fear—

Creator, bring her close…

and let her finally appear.

🔥 The Missing Conversation of Hearts 🔥

We sit in the lesson pretending we’re one,

but the moment it ends, every heart comes undone.

We mute the Zoom and forget what we felt,

like the warmth of the fire just suddenly melts.

We talk of connection, of rising above,

yet we carry no friend in our pockets of love.

No whispered prayer for Carl when the storm hits his day,

no heartbeat for Terry when his strength slips away.

Joe Bash fights his demons alone in the night,

Joe Donnelly bleeds quietly out of our sight.

Derick breaks open but no one can tell,

Oscar stands waving from inside his own hell.

Jean’s got a sorrow we never can feel,

Ilya prays softly but we’re nowhere near real.

Aron holds burdens he never unloads,

’Cause none of us walk with him down those dark roads.

We cry for the Creator but forget where He starts—

He’s built in the space between trembling hearts.

But how can He rise when we’re worlds torn apart

and we never have that missing conversation of heart?

The truth hits like thunder, it tears us in two:

We don’t think of the friends like the friends think of you.

And that’s why we’re stuck in this dry, aching place—

no memory of love when we’re back in our base.

But tonight something broke, something holy and sharp—

a scream from the center, a shattering spark.

It said, “Speak to your brothers all day, not in part—

only then will you feel their true beating heart.”

So Creator, awaken the bond we forgot,

tie friend into friend till we’re painfully caught.

Let our prayers intertwine till no one stands apart—

and You’ll rise from The Missing Conversation of Hearts.

Where The Creator Hides Between Us

Where The Creator Hides Between Us

When ten men bend their pride to give,

they taste the reason they were born to live.

Each tries to bestow though his ego screams “No!”

and from this shattered effort, the first lights start to glow.

We push through bills, through fears, through endless crap,

through mornings where we’d rather stay curled in a trap,

but the moment one heart tries to rise and give,

the others remember why together we live.

You try to love a friend and your strength disappears—

the Creator shows the truth by exposing your fears.

But when all of us fail and still reach out again,

the Creator signs His name on the hearts of ten men.

We build Him from nothing, from broken desires,

from daily annoyances, from anger and fires.

Each tiny bestowal, each gesture we try,

forms the vessel where the Creator will lie.

For revelation is not in “me,” not in “you,”

but in the place where our shattered intentions push through.

In that trembling space where two hearts meet,

the Creator’s footsteps begin to beat.

So we keep bestowing, though we stumble and fall,

and the more we admit we can’t do it at all,

the more His light gathers in the space we make—

ten men giving back what the ego would take.

🔥 “Inside the One Desire”

(A brutal everyday climb toward the Creator )

I crawl inside the want to be One with Him,

while the bills keep screaming and the lights go dim.

My phone won’t stop buzzing with the world’s demands,

yet my heart’s in a war zone with empty hands.

I dive into that chamber where the longing burns,

but the damn car won’t start and the whole day turns.

Traffic jams choke me while ego pulls tight,

still I search for His softness inside the fight.

The boss barks orders, my patience cracks,

the weight of the rent sitting on my back.

Friends ghost out, loneliness stalks the room,

yet I whisper His name in the inner gloom.

Coffee spills down my shirt as I try to ascend,

the mind mocks every dream I intend.

Pain in my chest from wanting His face,

but my dog pukes on the floor — so much for grace.

The desire pulls harder while the world goes mad,

I feel Him in the ache of the good and bad.

Every interruption is a messenger sent,

showing me the lack where my vessel is bent.

The heart breaks open because I want to give,

not for myself but for the way souls live.

In that place of longing I finally see—

He waits in the cracks life punches through me.

I press my forehead to the truth I feel,

though nothing outside of me seems to heal.

I pray from the wound where His Light is due,

and He fills that desire because it’s wholly true.

So I walk through the chaos with a trembling grin,

knowing every blow is a doorway in.

And the more the world smashes what I thought I knew,

the closer my broken heart clings to You.

The Left, the Right, and the Beast Inside

🔥 “The Left, the Right, and the Beast Inside”🔥

I stand before the King with shaking hands,

Pretending I’m whole while drowning in shifting sands.

Above reason I praise Him like a man who can’t breathe,

But when reason kicks in, it shows what’s underneath.

The left line hits me like a boot to the skull,

Revealing the truth—my heart’s empty, dull.

Importance of holiness? Only when I fake it,

Inside I’m bare, bankrupt, too damned weak to take it.

I see I’ve got nothing—no faith that’s real,

Just a mouth that talks tough while my knees always kneel.

This lack is the knife that cuts me awake,

It hurts so bad it teaches what wholeness can’t make.

Emptiness carves me till I’m hollow and thin,

Like the Creator ripped open my chest just to crawl in.

This beast in me screams, “Take for yourself!”

While the soul whispers softly, “Ask for nothing but help.”

I taste the left line—cold, sharp, and vile,

It shows what I hide with every forced smile.

But only those who seek to bestow can feel this ache,

The emptiness that threatens every breath they take.

So I beg for exaltedness, not wisdom or sight,

Just the strength to rise broken and walk above night.

Not to receive greatness, not to feel any glow,

But to bend like a servant whose master says, “Go.”

Then the right line appears—Hesed dressed like a king,

Telling me there’s good in every terrible thing.

“I made your evil,” He says, “but I gave you a spice—

The Torah to break it, if you pay the price.”

It’s brutal to see how the Torah cuts deep,

It wakes the parts of me I’d rather keep asleep.

It drags me from filth to a thin ray of light,

Not by wisdom or miracles—just choosing what’s right.

Right is wholeness, faith above knowing,

A quiet flame in a storm that keeps blowing.

And only when I cling to the Good Who Does Good,

Can the left line reveal what’s misunderstood.

Then wisdom hits—Hochma sharp as a blade,

The Torah that shines once the right has been made.

You earn the Giver only after you trust,

And walk above reason through fire and dust.

This is the work—between beast and man,

Between left and right that rip me in two as they can.

I rise from the ashes, brutalized, torn apart,

But every blow carves the Creator into my heart.

When The Hunger Turns Holy -- A Poem on Shamati 143

🔥 “When the Hunger Turns Holy” — A Poem on Shamati 143

I walk through days where nothing fits,

The heart’s a cage the ego knits.

It whispers, “Take, devour, claim,”

’Til all my thoughts burst into flame.

The soul grows hungry in the dark,

It claws the ribs to leave a mark.

It begs for Light but tastes the mud,

’Cause every rise must cross the flood.

Shamati writes: the hunger’s real—

You starve until the heavens peel.

You’re left with nothing but your cry,

A broken vessel asking why.

But this is love, disguised as pain,

The lack, the longing, the inner strain.

He empties you so you can feel

How only He can make you real.

You fight the urge to numb the ache,

To run, to hide, to curse, to break.

But every wound that splits your chest

Is Him demanding you confess:

“I’m not the owner of this life,

I cannot win this inner strife.

Take all I hold, all I defend—

Just let me fall into my friends.”

And when the darkness steals your breath,

When hope feels like a quiet death,

You learn the truth inside the burn—

Only through lack the lights return.

He starves the will so love can grow,

He cracks the heart so you will know

That all the fullness you adore

Arrives when you can ask no more.

So bless the hollows carved in you,

The nights you drown, the days you rue.

For each assault that tears your core

Opens a gate to something more.

Shamati says the pain is wise—

A gift wrapped tight in your disguise.

You’re emptied out, but not alone—

Your Ten becomes your borrowed throne.

And when you break enough to bend,

Enough to need your closest friend,

Enough to beg the Light to come—

That’s when creation beats its drum.

You rise from hunger, stripped but whole,

With nothing left except the goal.

The Creator’s love—so fierce, so tough—

Whispers, “Now you’re finally enough.”

THE MORNING ROLLERCOASTER — Full Epic Version

PART I — WAKING INTO THE WAR

I wake in the morning and thank G-D I’m alive,

already bracing my soul for the next hard dive.

This corporal world jerks me side to side,

a rusted-out ego-run carnival ride.

My phone buzzes early like a demon on cue,

whispering, “Bill… there’s trouble for you.”

Bills on the table, the tank’s running dry,

the body groans louder than my morning sigh.

But somewhere inside there’s a flickering grace,

a memory of friends, each heart, each face.

And before the world drags me back into night,

I reach for the Ten — my one source of Light.

---

PART II — THE FALL AND THE FIGHT

Every step forward the ego screams, “Mine!”

poisoning the heart like a cheap boxed wine.

It claws and it argues, it wants to divide,

to throw me off balance on this wild-ass ride.

Carl’s voice in the Zoom cuts through the doubt,

Terry shows up steady even when he’s burnt-out.

Joe Bash brings thunder, Joe Donnelly brings calm,

like two sides of mercy stretched over my palm.

Derick’s fire wakes the room like a spark,

Oscar’s prayers soften the edge of the dark.

Jean carries sweetness that stitches the soul,

while Ilya and Aron make the broken feel whole.

Each one a lifeline the Creator designed,

to drag my heart out of the pit of my mind.

Without them I swear I’d be stripped down and bare,

a man with a body but nobody there.

---

PART III — THE CREATOR’S BLOWTORCH

The day heats up, the trials commence,

every desire pounding the gates of my sense.

My pride wants revenge, my anger wants more,

my lust kicks the hinges clean off the door.

Loneliness hits like a thief with a knife,

cutting through memories of a half-finished life.

The phone rings crooked, the bike needs repair,

and my mind starts breaking like a cheap folding chair.

But then comes the whisper — a razor so kind,

“I’m sculpting your heart from the stone of your mind.”

And suddenly suffering becomes a decree,

a workshop of pain where the soul learns to see.

Every blow that I curse, every trial I fear,

is the Creator refining what I hold dear.

He shatters the shell I keep trying to hide,

till love becomes fear and fear becomes pride.

---

PART IV — THE TEN WHO CARRIES ME HOME

Evening rolls in like a bruised purple sky,

and I drag my heart tired but still willing to try.

The friends gather close as the darkness descends,

and I remember again: we only rise as one — never as men.

We sit in the circle, broken but true,

offering our fragments like morning dew.

Every flaw revealed, every weakness shown,

becomes the seed of a heart we share — not own.

For this is the secret the wise always knew:

the Creator appears in the space between two.

But when ten gather wounded with love on their face,

He tears open heaven and fills up the place.

So I wake in the morning and thank G-D I’m alive,

for the chance to fall again and again and survive.

For the Ten is my compass, my cradle, my guide,

and the Creator Himself is the One on this ride.

And I whisper at night with a heart torn apart:

“Break me again, Lord…

just don’t let me drift from their heart.”