Hey! This is the old a broken mold. Newer stuff is at abrokenmold.net.
That being said, feel free to rummage through the archives over here. Also feel free to leave comments; we're still keeping an eye on this.

Battered. Whispered screams from every side. Hissing failure. Preaching darkness, emanating it, killing you alive. Reach for hope and knives at your throat. Fall back, hope fades, the end seems pleasant, a tree of refreshment, yet somehow, somewhere, knows it is false.

About to give in, pushing away what light you saw, for it surely cannot bring rest… surely not. Sink down, beaten down, fallen rose. Where is anything? Where is where I was? None of this can be… why not a story, yes… this isn't me… is it? Curse, rise again, to fall. To fall… what? This too, unbelievable.. is this the way out? You really came to me? Surely not… for look at me… I couldn't be worthy. Yet I'm picked up and lead back… and now know what seemed right was false and what seemed impossible was true. And I never was there… this is somewhere new… Still not standing on my own… but finally I have risen. Turn eyes and thank him who did the impossible. And make the choice.


I wrote that last July… it talks about deep despair but then hope through the sacrifice of Christ, He who makes the crippled walk, the deaf hear, the blind see, the dead alive. It's somewhat poetic, but I wouldn't call it a straight poem, perhaps artistic prose. Maybe it means something to somebody out there.