Find My Voice

Deep within the well
At the core of who I am
Hidden from the world
Is a pure and righteous man

Untested, untried
Water so still and serene
I must look inside
To reveal the most real scene

I am going down
Knowing that I have a choice
I won't come back out
Not until I find my voice

Someday

Someday

I'll write a song for you.

I'll be the rhythm, you'll be the melody

It'll be a song about you and me

 

Right now

I'm just collecting

All of the stories we'll recall

As we watch the sun fall

 

This is only the beginning

Trust and give it time

What may seem like darkness

Will become a sunrise

 

Someday

I'll be the guy next door

I'll come to your house, I'll look you in the eyes

As we watch the sun rise

 

You and me will be a song

You'll be the melody, I'll be the rhythm

I'll write a song for you

Someday

I am no blank page...

I am no blank page,
but a constant stream of lyrics to my God.
Filled to the outer edges
Until I must borrow your page
Do you like what you read?
Does it enter your heart?
Or do you tear it out in disregard?
I won't be offended, you take what you choose.
For my page is me, and your page is you.
I would be so plain if I kept to myself.
I am no blank page, but a collage of me mixed
with everyone else.

Chicken Biryani

 

When I was in Hyderabad, India about ten years ago, a popular dish there was Chicken Biryani. I made this dish once before, and I followed the instructions very carefully. Tonight, I skimmed a few recipes online and watched an instructional youtube video on how to make Biryani. Then, I just threw all the basic pieces together: Chicken (drumsticks), Basmati Rice, Curry Powder, Salt, Pepper, Ginger, Cummin, Onions, Potatoes, Plain Yogurt, and Tomatoes. I didn't bother measuring anything, and I think the Chicken Biryani turned out pretty good. Also, I think it was more fun to make the dish when I winged it.

uke play

new strings

This is my first attempt at re-stringing my uke.

Colorless Cold

I want to be stirred as in the ways of old

Reignited from this snuffed out colorless candle

I know I have a purpose, but the passion is cold

embittered by the parts that I could not handle