Colllect This

 

COLLECT THIS

It comes at me dirty, no knock, no grace

A thought with a shiv and a spit in my face

An emotion that drags me back through the mud

A vision soaked heavy in old shame and blood

Didn’t ask for it. Didn’t vote it in.

Still there it is—grinning—wearing my skin

The ego says, “Good, this is yours to chew”

Like I haven’t watched that lie split me in two

It says “Understand it, fix it, explain it clean”

As if control was ever part of this scene

As if I didn’t learn the hard damn way

That what I grab tight is what rots and stays

Because every time I crown it as “me”

The Light cuts out like electricity

Every time I claim it, name it, defend

I turn a message into a dead-end

So yeah—I’ve fought it, swallowed it whole

Called it “growth” while it ate my soul

Pretended strength meant white-knuckle resolve

Like this mess was something I could solve

But I’m done lying to myself today

I don’t steer the waves—I just get in the way

These thoughts ain’t wisdom, these feelings ain’t truth

They’re raw materials—untamed, uncouth

So I stop mid-impact, stripped of my pride

Not holy. Not steady. Just empty inside

And from that cracked place—no script, no tone—

I aim where I know I don’t stand alone

Because holding this solo is spiritual theft

Like hoarding a fire till there’s nothing left

I wasn’t built to contain this heat

I was built to pass it into the street

Into the space where no one’s above

Where power dissolves into stubborn love

Where ten broken throats form one clear sound

And the Creator shows up on common ground

Because alone this pressure will snap my spine

But between the friends—it refines

What kills me in private, shames me at night

Turns into fuel when we face it as one Light

The blow still lands. The weight stays real.

But it moves now—it doesn’t seal

It doesn’t rot. It doesn’t own.

It travels a channel I’ve finally known

This is the trick the ego never learns:

The moment I drop it, the system turns

The second I stop being the end of the line

Abundance pours like it lost its mind

Too much. Too fast. More than I can stand.

So I don’t hold it—I hand it back

Not cleaned. Not dressed. Not understood.

Just honest, exposed, and dangerously good

And this is the only prayer that survives the fire—

No poetry. No halo. No higher desire.

Just the last true sentence I know how to say:

Dear Creator, collect them and correct them

for our use in bestowal

through the connection in the Ten.

When It Comes At Me

 WHEN IT COMES AT ME

When it comes at me uninvited, raw and loud

A thought like a blade, an emotion too proud

A vision that shakes me, I didn’t request

It hits where I’m weakest, right dead in the chest

My ego jumps first, says “This one is mine”

To chew it, to use it, to cross every line

To fix it, to own it, to wear it like skin

Like I ever controlled what was placed deep within

But I’ve been here before, I know this disguise

Every surprise is the same old lie

If I grab it, I lose it, if I crown it as “me”

I seal off the Light and I choke the degree

So I stop.

Not brave.

Not calm.

Not clean.

Just tired of drowning in what I can’t mean

And from the heart—no speech, no show—

I turn where I’ve learned is the only place to go

Dear Creator, collect what I cannot hold

These thoughts, these fires, this hunger, this cold

I didn’t ask for them, but I won’t pretend

I know how they work or how they should end

Correct them—not soften, not hide, not erase

Turn poison to medicine, pressure to space

Not for my comfort, not so I feel “right”

But for use in bestowal, aligned with Your Light

And don’t give them back to me broken and alone

I’m not built to carry this weight on my own

Pass them between us, where vessels are true

Where Ten hearts can do what one never could do

Through the connection, not talent or might

Between the friends—that’s where You ignite

Not in my wisdom, not in my plea

But in the space where there is no “me”

And something strange happens—quiet, precise

The storm doesn’t vanish, it just loses its price

The heat is still there, but it’s no longer mine

It moves like a current, not a fault in my spine

What crushed me alone now strengthens the bond

What felt like an enemy turns quietly fond

The blow becomes fuel, the chaos a thread

Woven between us, not stuck in my head

This is the end—and the start—of the fight

Not to feel holy, not to be right

But to never again steal what was sent

To be lifted between us, not owned or spent

So when it comes at me—thought, vision, or scream—

I don’t ask why, and I don’t ask what it means

I hand it upstream, where correction is done

Through the Ten, through the bond, through the work—

as One.

Correcting Our Nature

 We are born in a state that knows no Light,

No sense of bestowal, no inner sight.

A will to receive that rules every move,

Cut off from the truth we were made to prove.

There is nothing worse than this starting place,

A life with no feel of the Creator’s face.

We chase our pleasures, defend our pride,

While the force of bestowal stays locked outside.

Yet this is the work, not to run or escape,

But to take our nature and let it reshape.

Not to kill desire or break what we are,

But aim the same hunger toward a higher star.

Step after step, through failure and cry,

Through prayers that rise when all answers die,

Wisdom is earned, not read or told,

It’s learned in the fire where the ego is cold.

And when bestowal becomes our aim,

When giving outweighs the hunger for gain,

The path completes what words can’t explain—

We become as one with the Source of the flame.

When The Road Breaks Open

 When the Road Breaks Open

You pack your bag with a shaking hand

A congress calling, a promise you planned

The heart says go, the mind says wait

Bills on the table, time running late

You swear this time you’ll make it through

You told the friends, you said you’d be true

But the road don’t care what vows you said

It throws you steel that leaves you dead

A car on the lift, the clock runs fast

“No parts till Monday,” they say at last

Two hundred dollars, that’s all you’ve got

And the retreat’s fading right on the spot

Now comes the moment no one sees

Not faith in words, but bent-knee pleas

You sit alone, your chest caved in

Not asking to win — just not to give in

Your heart don’t pray with fancy lines

It cracks and leaks between the whys

“I promised them… I wanted You…

I don’t know how, but help me through”

No deals, no strength, no clever play

Just truth that burns the self away

And right there where the hope feels dead

Something moves you never led

Three minutes pass — no more than that

The shop door opens, a turn of fact

The owner walks like it’s no big thing

Says, “Found the part… won’t charge a thing”

No labor bill, no reason why

Just mercy dropped from the open sky

An hour later you’re tearing in

Like a soul reborn, scraped thin

You don’t arrive clean, proud, or whole

You come in fire, you come in soul

Not because you were strong or smart

But because you asked with a broken heart

This is the road to every congress gate

Not perfect plans, but crushed-down weight

Obstacles stacked till you finally see

You don’t come by will — you come by plea

The trick ain’t courage, grit, or might

It’s turning to Him in the darkest night

When nothing works and you can’t pretend

That’s when the help is sent

So if the road starts falling apart

If life leans hard and splits your heart

Don’t curse the blocks, don’t turn away

That’s the door — that’s when you pray

Because the Creator waits right there

Where the heart breaks clean of self-care

And every congress begins that way

With nothing left — and a cry that stays

Reward That Hurts Like Truth

Reward That Hurts Like Truth

I said I want no reward, I swear it’s true,

Yet every nerve asks, “What’s in this for you?”

The will to receive hides behind holy clothes,

Quotes the sages while tightening its nose.

I worked and I worked and expected a sign,

A taste of the Light, some proof I was fine,

But all I received was a mirror so clear,

It showed me the beast I carried for years.

The ego got clever, it learned how to pray,

How to give lip service while steering my way,

It said, “You’re righteous, look—everyone sees,”

While feeding itself on respect and ease.

The whole world applauds, says, “You serve God well,”

But inside I’m rented, still serving myself,

A servant of comfort, of honor and gain,

Calling it Torah, disguising the chain.

Then came the fall—no warning, no sound,

From heaven to trash heap, face in the ground,

No sense of descent, no shame, no fear,

Just pleasure dressed up as “life” right here.

Dead don’t feel dead, they don’t ask for air,

They don’t miss the King, they don’t know He’s there,

I lived like a cat in the garbage of mind,

Chasing warm scraps, completely blind.

And then—without reason, without a demand,

A breath from Above pulled me out by the hand,

Not with reward, not with sweetness or glow,

But with one sharp gift: the truth of my low.

Now I see pain was never the crime,

It was payment in advance for a higher time,

The hurt was a ladder I couldn’t detect,

Each rung carved from self-love I learned to reject.

The Creator is gentle, unbearably kind,

He lets me fall only to open my eyes,

He kills me just enough so I’ll want to live,

Then resurrects me with nothing to give.

No fruit grows fast, no soul comes cheap,

First comes the drought, the hunger, the sleep,

But even the barren, the wasted, the dry,

Were planted to bloom by His careful design.

So let the ego scream, bargain, and plead,

Let it curse the pain and demand its fee,

I’ll stand with the help I never could earn,

And bless every fall I was given to learn.

Because reward isn’t pleasure, applause, or light,

It’s seeing the truth and still choosing the fight,

And serving Him starts the moment I know—

I can’t serve Him at all on my own.

---

It Appears To Me(If We Want To See)

It Appears to Me (If We Want to See)

It appears to me

If we want to see

Don’t look back

Increase the lack

What’s missing is not some hidden sign

It’s the will to leave me behind

The past keeps whispering, “You were right”

But sight is born only in forward night

The ego begs comfort, proof, and control

While the soul cries out for a shared hole

Not a hole of despair or private pain

But a common absence we all sustain

Don’t polish the wound, don’t dress it nice

Let it burn clean, let it demand a price

The lack is the place where truth can stand

When I stop reaching with my own hand

If I look back, I justify why I’m here

If I look forward, I tremble in fear

But fear is the gate that faith walks through

When the “I” dissolves into “we” and “you”

So don’t ask answers, don’t beg to be shown

Build the space where He’s already known

For vision arrives, simple and free

When your lack becomes ours—

it appears to me.

The Place Where Ten Become One

The Place Where Ten Become One

We were not gathered for comfort or peace,

But to expose the grip of the will to receive.

A force was required, not one man alone,

For the evil resists where it’s privately owned.

So we agreed—without contract or name—

That the goal stands above loss and gain.

And from that consent, a power was born:

To fight oneself, where the true war is sworn.

Each one included in all the rest,

No hero survives this particular test.

For the strength of the many lives only where

I dissolve my claim to being “more” or “aware.”

Annulment is not a lowering of head,

But choosing the friends’ merits instead.

The moment I rise above even one,

I sever the thread—we are no longer one.

In every ten, a whole stature stands:

Head, body, heels, and unseen hands.

And blessed is not the one who ascends,

But the one who feels lowest among his friends.

For abundance flows through the place most null,

Where the self is emptied, not spiritualized full.

Not wisdom, not fire, not knowledge refined—

But the heel that consents to be last in line.

So what do we speak when we gather as friends?

Not failures, not states, not how the week bends.

We speak of the Creator—His greatness alone,

For annulment grows where His height is known.

And yet even that greatness we must surpass,

For above reason is where adhesion lasts.

We believe He is good, benevolent, true,

Even when reason objects, confused and askew.

From the friends I must borrow this faith,

This love that survives contradiction and weight.

Not from myself—there is nothing to take—

Only from hearts that for the goal ache.

And when the eye sees a flaw in the ten,

Know the evil has entered again.

Above reason I rise, not blind but aware,

That correction is found in how I compare.

If I see myself higher, I’ve nothing to gain,

No vessel, no lack, no place for His Name.

But if I see them as greater than me,

Then adhesion becomes a real possibility.

So let this day begin with one quiet vow:

Not to fix, not to judge, not to know how.

Only to annul, to cling, to receive

The friends as the place where the Creator is revealed.