The Way to Go

Knowledge of Godly truths is not a talent
Rather a blessing after much pondering and prayer
The light that some seem to come by so easily
Was earned through desire, humility, and pursuance

If one is willing, they will be molded
They will learn faith
They will find peace
In the very being that created them

To each is a divine destiny
Chosen before this life
To be chosen or forsaken now
The only way to find it is through God

You are his child
His love for you is unfathomable
He will never forsake you
Although you may Him

He is the author of all things good
He is the same yesterday, today and forever
Omniscient and omnipotent
Blessed be His name

Cerra Hawkins

Eulogy of an Asshole

I met him on his death bed. At 9 years old, I never questioned why I didn't know my grandfather before then - it was just how it was.

Our mother's hands, placed strategically on our backs - high enough to add a degree of comfort, but low enough to silence any protest on our parts - drove my brother and I into the back bedroom of the small, unfamiliar house. Looking back, it seems as though we may have offered some sort of barrier for her from what loomed ahead.

We entered the room to find an old, diminished man lying in the bed that consumed most of the room's space. He was propped up with pillows and his eyes seemed to pierce. He spoke, "You two look as dumb as a post."

This was his first and, at his state, it was possibly the last thing said to his posterity. What I didn't catch on to in my youth was, that this short, brief encounter told so much of the dying man. This wasn't a man bitter because he was dying. This man wasn't simply having "a bad day." That was who he was. I guess you could give the old man props for forsaking any guile at that point.

Shortly after, he died. There was probably one or two more encounters between our first and then, but I cannot remember them. What I do remember was his eulogy. It was not dissimilar to those of great, beloved ones of mine that had passed before. This was puzzling to me even then.

My father and his siblings all share feelings of bitterness and abandonment when it comes to their father to this day. While alive, few had anything good to say about him, yet, in death he was, dare I say, glorified.

Is it our society? Why is it that we can't say these wonderful things about some until they are dead, and we can't say the down-right shitty things about one once they have perished? Is it as simple as the old-fashioned fear of speaking ill of the dead? Or is it we feel free from the commitment our good words may bring upon a dead man's corpse, yet love the good feeling we get when saying them? Is it that we are trying to justify our tears to the world by displaying our great loss? Is it that we are trained to lie from infancy - to others and ourselves? "When someone tells you they love you, you say it back" "When someone says 'thank you' you say 'you're welcome'" "Don't say you don't like that; that's rude. Tell them it's nice." "Does this dress make mommy look fat?"

In a Word

My childhood: Longing
My adulthood: Empowerment
Family: Eternal
Life: Progression
The future: Hopeful
The present: Gift
Good: Truth
Evil: Pride
Mankind: Flawed
Godhood: Perfection
Beauty: Children
Ugliness: Hate

Cerra Hawkins

Sometimes feelings are best analyzed when stripped down to their simplest form.

At the Top

Why must the strong compensate for the weak
Is that the natural reward for working past inferiority
Is strength a condition some are born with
Or a path the weak do not chose

Why must the strong be reduced
To the expression of feeling through cryptic analogies
While the weak are expected, nae, encouraged to openly weep
And nurture the delicateness of their soul

It is not that the strong cannot cry
Nor that they do not want to cry
But that they cannot cry now
There is a time for everything
And now is a time to finish

Will the world continue to spin in such a way
That makes the strong stronger and weak weaker
Will there one day come a point
Where the two's paths never meet

Cerra Hawkins

ramblings of frustration

Home

I long for a simpler time
A time when that very thing
Didn't seem so fleeting
When the sun seemed to stay a little longer

I long for the smell
Of animals and plants
Something more than my scented oils
That add a false sense of depth

I long for the days
Spent outside
Not in man-made attempts at outside
But really outside

I long for the scenes
That forced one to stop
And wonder at a God
That could create such magnificence

I long for the nights
When sleep was a necessity earned
By the fatigue of the body
Instead of a burden brought on by the setting sun

I long for a place
Where dirt and plant
Vastly outweigh
Asphalt and concrete

I long to be
Where I can sit out
Over lands of yellow grain and green grass
And breathe the sweet air of home

Cerra Hawkins