the scars i chose for myself – a poem

Hello Readers,

Today I wanted to share a freeform poem I wrote based off of a person I met at church. I always enjoy hearing people’s stories, and this person had an interesting tattoo to go with their story. It was one of those things that are just begging to be written.

the scars i chose for myself

my scars were inked into my flesh

i chose them, i suppose.

black and white, writhing in my skin

i fought the battle but i lost the war

and in my moment of defeat

a scar was chosen

my arm was covered






how i fought and fought and


i tried to drown my demons

but they learned




now i’m going underwater

a father eases me in

i think i hear the people

they’re singing



for me?

my soul yearns to sing with them

but i am not ready yet.


the holy water gets in my lungs

i choke on it but it burns

i feel my demons in my chest

they’re choking too

but now i’m breathing

then i’m up

the water is gone





i look over

and there He is

holding every last one under

they burn in the water of baptism

i could not drown them

but thank God






Here’s Your Roses…

Hello Readers,

This is my Dad’s story. This is my history. I have heard these stories so many times I joke I could tell them better than him.

So we’re going to test it.


Here’s Your Roses- They’re Dead!

I had just been married to Amy for a year or so, and Valentines Day rolled around. So, what did I do?

What I thought any new husband should do.

I ordered a dozen red roses. However, what I did next was not the smart thing to do.

I left them in my car, because I didn’t want the guys at work to make fun of me. I rolled the windows up and left them on the seat. Now, this would have all been fine and well if it hadn’t been a burning hot day.

But it was.

After a long day of working, I got in my car, preparing to drive home and present my wonderful wife with a dozen red roses. Then I happened to glance over and see what had happened to them while I was working.

Turns out, leaving them in a hot car in any season is a bad idea. Who knew?

They were as dead as dead can be, wilted and brown, looking nothing like the wonderful bouquet I had envisioned. They were also pretty darn expensive, so my money and my pride had both taken a turn for the worst.

I drove home, getting madder and madder with every stoplight I passed. Finally, I got home, and by then I was so mad I had a scowl to rival my old gym teacher’s.

I opened my car door, grabbed the dead roses and marched up into my house.

I strode in and threw the roses on the couch, the scowl growing deeper on my face.

“Here’s your roses! They’re DEAD!”

“What… what does this mean!?” Was the response from my startled wife.

Amy started sobbing, and it took about fifteen minutes for both of us to calm down.

We laugh about it now.


My Dad’s Stories

Hello Readers,

I’m a storyteller, but I can’t claim the credit of being the only one in my family, because the real storyteller has always been my dad.

My dad isn’t a writer, actually, he doesn’t like to write.

But ever since I could understand words, he’s been telling me stories. And unlike my stories, which are purely fictional, my dad’s are true (mostly). And he is a master of his craft.

He spins words, laughing knowingly as you get to the edge of your seat to hear better, and don’t ever try to up his stories, because he will always, always win. I’m serious. Many have tried and gone down in a blaze.

I don’t know what life would be like without my dad’s stories, because I have grown up on those tales like some kids grew up on hamburger helper. There has been a story for everything, and there are certain stories that I have heard so many times I can tell them better than he can.

Some kids read Curious George, Little Bear, and the Princess and the Frog, and I read those too, but my diet consisted of “The First Time I Saw Your Mom” “The Time I Got A Weightbench and No Weights For Christmas” “The Time The Devil Dog Tried To Eat Me” “My Grandma’s Yellow Fingernails” “That Time Your Mom’s Roses Wilted and I Was Mad Cause I Paid For Them and They Died” “When You Were Small Enough That I Could Wrap You Up Like a Burrito” and so on and so forth.

As time went on, I heard more and more stories, and soon I was in a more than couple of them. “The Time We Went To Laos” “That One Time Your Brother Broke His Arm and We Used A Cardboard Tube As a Cast” “The Time I Got You a Chihuahua and Your Mom Was Unhappy”.

As people have left our life, those stories of my Dad’s have kept them close and remembered. Everything worth mentioning is a story.

My world hinges on those stories, because they remind me of what has made us who we are, what the people in our past, and beyond were like, and the fact that God still works miracles. Those stories are filled with hope and laughter, and a life worth living.

So when I write I’m just working off of the way my dad has told stories for my entire life. And maybe, maybe one day, I will be able to tell a cooler story than he can. (Doubtful, but it’s a good way to live life.)