I’ve spilled my soul these thirty days—
lines where shadows bleed
into flickers of belief.

Poetry became the outlet
my songs wouldn’t offered,
melodies must 
soar in the light,
though the brightest of moments
come from confessing the dark.

In music, I’m the voice
of hope,
a role model of joy,
an architect of rising suns.

These poems called for
a deeper truth.
I’ve exposed
the torment underneath:
the silent wars,
the clawing doubts,
the tears that fall unseen.

I’ve written of nights
where faith felt paper-thin,
of how despair
can be a prophet,
pointing me
to eternal roots.

For even trees
and trembling flowers
weather the greatest 
of storms,
only because
their roots dig deep.

The same is true
for my soul—
as I’ve found;
it can’t stand
against the storms I face
unless I’m wholly
rooted in Christ—
fed by living water,
anchored firm in
unstable ground.

From this misery,
sprouts ministry.
From confession,
comes connection.
From wounds,
flows wisdom.

I stand,
rooted in Him—
as I’ve always been,
though often struggle to
play the part.
Branches stretching
toward hearts full of pain.
Leaves wave in acceptance,
Offering rest to the weary soul.

I have seen
how darkness shapes
a faith that cannot
be shaken.
I have watched the lowest rise,
only because they chose to trust.

A ministry has bloomed
not in spite of misery—
but because I’ve
walked through it.
At the deepest roots,
ever faithful—
is where I find Him.