Because

I have learned, again, that I am both wanted and needed here.  In this life. On this earth.  On my daily walks on the sidewalk.  On my daily walk before God and man.  Sometimes I do not want to know that I am needed or wanted.  It’s impossible for me to stay down when there are so many who believe.  A painful thing.  A wondrous thing.

Perhaps you, dearest Reader, believe that no one wants you, or that no one needs you.  I do.  I, Adam Scott Campbell, want you and need you.  I can look at my blog stats and learn when my blog has had a visitor. Seeing that, seeing the stats, the daily stats, saves my life.  I mean that in a very literal sense.  Those daily, weekly hits on Embattled We prove to me that someone values what I have to say.  That he or she values me.  Maybe…

Maybe, probably, very likely you have had a moment, maybe many moments wherein you wondered what I have.  “Why should I keep going?”

I don’t use the word “try”.  I have no appreciation, none, for the word “try”.  “Why should I try” is a phrase used by someone who has given up.

“Why do I keep going” is a question leading to action, the act of fighting through the fire and the storm to your core and learning about the wondrous person you are, who you have always been and always will be.  Followed all the way through, it is a question that leads you to your life purpose, your Why.

I have found my Why.  “I want to touch one more life.”  This is at the core of my Core.  How many people live on this earth?  How many times can I touch just one of them?  The possibilities are endless.

So why then would I find any desire to be done, if my Core can be filled in this life?  The answer lies in my wholehearted belief that there is life after this life and that others are waiting for me there.  But more, it lies in my understanding of just how impossibly wonderful that after-earth-life is.  Imagine having happiness fill you.  Imagine it overflowing.  Imagine yourself so happy that you are compelled to share it with every soul who crosses your path.  That is what I see in my afterlife.

So, the final question: Why not take myself there?

And the final answer: That would be taking God’s right for myself.  God gave me my life.  It’s His to take, in His time and in His way.

Adam Scott Campbell

Jewel Most Rare 4

And my blazing, white-hot fire, ever hotter than before,
Engulfs my bleeding body, each oozing, poisoned pore.
Pained, my mortal frame kneels, bowing to the earth.
Heaven's angels reteach me how very much one soul is worth.

My golden heart, my Jewel Most Rare, now rests in my hands.
I knew not, nor know now, the whole of my God's plans.
But knowing not the entirety, I content myself with part.
I see purity returning to my once-darkened, good heart.

Now angel's hands so pure, two hands not my own,
Reach across, cradle my hands that have, the darkness, known.
Purity and darkness feeling they're meant to meet...
Two pure... two turning pure... their owners take a seat.

At fire's core, where turning-pure has fought since my first choice,
The other, knowing all the darkness, listens, then she gives voice
To a flowing narrative saga.  A tale to set me free.
Tis my story, from her perspective.  I begin at last to see.

I walked through this my fire, turned, and walked through again.
Will I ever find my good heart? I would think. And if so, when?
Much pain and much happiness has from my story come.
She shows me that pain endured well brings me to my sum.

Now rising to her feet, she pulls me up as well.
"Others need you and I to help them through their hell."
"But I am so very fallen," I say. "You have light I do not own.
You are pure and nearly perfect, and nigh to God's own throne."

"What am I but blood and bone, that now can hardly stand?"
Then she answers with words for which I have not planned.
"How many have walked through hell fire, not once but many times,
And still understand what it really means to be kind?"

"How many would shoulder stranger's load, bearing harshest chores,
Or take a friend's cancer, and live in hospital forevermore?
Can you not accept that your heart-jewel preciously endures
So many fires, because it is very nearly pure?"

Her words, well-chosen, desperately needed and wise,
Remind me why I wish free from Satan's lies.
Now one desire resurfaces, as ever it does.
I want always to bear in mind my war-poet's Because.

"This mortal journey," I say soft, "To which we have been called,
Oft tears me asunder.  I have so many falls.
But one thing gets me up each time.  One thing pulls me through.
It's the thought that I want always to be with you."

"God has many daughters, and each I feel is choice.
But choice is mine, too.  And to it I give voice.
I want you. I want us.  If such will ever be..."
"Yes," she responds.  "Let's walk the fire, you and me."

Adam Scott Campbell


http://adamspoems-bp.blogspot.com/2010/08/through-blazing-white-hot-fire-i-chance.html

Did I Think No Other Fought?

I do not know, but yet do wonder why
The war seems required for the warrior I.
Fighting seems one with the verb "to try."
Despite exhaustion, I do want not to die.
War fought now.  Is my cause a lie?

Is this battle needed?  Has the good side won?
Has a starless night turned into a day of sun?
Has a broken cripple found at last that he can run?
Does heart-shattered warrior now see his war is done?
Will he drop his weapon, whether sword, or club, or gun?

Can he relearn what he never understood,
That he doesn't have to fight, nor that he should?
That inner peace, now grasped, he found he ever could,
That full, outer tranquility would
Follow, and both were good?

Do hands typing these words tremble for all unsaid,
Or do they shake for all the great good done instead?
Can nourishing morsels to their owner's mind be fed?
Will tension trapped in soul-skin, whereon foes leave tread,
Find it is released, to where other enemies fled?

I yet know not, but do still wonder why
I thought the fight required.  How far the warrior I
Has walked from Home beyond endless sky...
The fight was ever fought, that warrior I
Might survive.  Did I think no other fought?

Was this why?

Outlet

Thoughts.  On this blog, and in my writing in general, things can become dark.  I do what I can to introduce something positive, something to offset the dark thoughts.  I don't know how to introduce the positive sometimes, feeling that I would not be genuine for you, my Reader, at certain moments.  Every post I have blogged is a way to release tension, angst, pain, sadness... the list goes on.  It's a method, also, of creating something out of my darkness instead of letting the darkness implode and do some serious damage, as it has before.  I'm not afraid of the darkness, but I know how deadly it is when it's not channeled into something helpful.  I see it as one of the most powerful creative mediums available to me.  It's a dark energy.  I have to do something with it.  When I'm in mental pain, I often form a mental scene of angels gathering around and laying soothing hands on my pained soul.  Angels, to me, are spirit children of my Heavenly Father- and as such, are my brothers and sisters.  I think that imagining heavenly help is not a crime, but an active belief in, and enabler of, real miracles.  I certainly believe in those.

I believe that we are miracles, the greatest miracles God has ever performed.  You, O Reader, are a miracle.  Maybe you already know that, or perhaps you've never considered it before, or maybe you are in the process.  I knew it so long ago, yet chose to disregard it or even reject it at times.  My darkness was so powerful even then.  The fact that I am alive to type this is incredibly strong evidence that miracles are real and active, in my life and also in yours.  Drawing the curtain over my own life is something I wanted to do, so many times.  I wonder if you have, or if someone close to you has wanted to.  I don't expect an overwhelming influx of replies to this post, but I know that there are many in this world who would like an early exit.  To say it simply,  I want you to live.  I do.  I do not want to live on this planet alone.  If you need or want an outlet, I invite you to respond to this post.  You are more than welcome, and if what's inside you is killing you, I beg you to do so.

Adam Scott Campbell

Keeping Me Alive

Life hurts.  You know that.  Life can be more painful than you know how to deal with.  Maybe you deal with the pain by disconnecting.  I do that.  Not all the time, but still.  Maybe you have the pain taken care of by someone else, because you have exhausted other options.  I've been there.  Maybe the one taking care of your pain wears scrubs for much of the day, or maybe he or she wears jeans and a t-shirt.  If taking care of your pain is a necessity for your physical and/or psychological survival, then the person performing such charity for you has earned the title "angel".

Do you recognize your angels?  Can you see them, and can you see them for who and what they are?  Maybe you do.  Maybe gratitude overflows in your heart because of the grace bestowed on you.  Angels both mortal and immortal have place in your life.  They talk to you.  Or draw or write to you.  Or sing to you.  Or dare to keep breathing for you.  Or smile randomly at you.  Perhaps it confuses you sometimes.  I can be confused so often.  If we reap what we sow, then surely the grace granted you was something you gave to someone else, at some point, in some circumstance.

For whom are you an angel?  You are reading my blog.  That makes you one of my angels, because it means that my words are valued.  That gives me hope, and my hope, like the title of this blog, is embattled- it has to fight for survival.  You, O Reader, are keeping my hope alive.  I am alive.

Thank you.

Adam Scott Campbell

Proud Of You

Maybe you are like me.  Maybe you feel you do more stumbling and falling than rising and walking. Maybe you have developed the ability to block out the thought that you feel stagnant- that you are moving, but not getting anywhere.  Perhaps the war you are engaged in isn't a fight against other people, but maybe you wish it was.  Maybe you want to do battle in the physical realm, and not the spiritual or intellectual.  Physical struggle can be a great reliever of mental, emotional, and spiritual angst.  Hence the allure of working out when stress is at a high level.  Imagine being locked up in your own pain-laced thought processes for months at a time.  A thought, an act, or the wrong medication, or a lack of any medication, could have been the switch that set it all off, and now, knowing you're in real trouble, you don't know how to turn your soul-ship around and head back to calmer waters.  Maybe you doubt the existence of such healing waters.  It has been a very long time for you.  I know it has for me.  I fell into the ocean not knowing how to swim.  I have been led to isles to rest on every now and then.  Each isle has been a moment of sweetest grace, often brought about by a random act of kindness, usually by a stranger.  I am grateful for, and need, those acts.  They have tended to be the best mortal moments of my life.  But mainly it has been an endless endeavor to stay afloat, and I still don't have a good grasp on the skill of swimming.  I'm not quitting. But I am tired.  I was tired far sooner in life than I should have been.  That is surely true of more of God's earthly children than I know.  I've seen more wear and tear in the eyes of some children than in the eyes of some adults.  It is heart-wrenching.  Whatever turbulent waters I have been through, there are others swimming in seas just as turbulent and treacherous.  My brothers and sisters are swimming and struggling and not giving up, all across this ocean named "Mortal Life".  I am proud of them.  I am proud of you.  Keep it up.

Adam Scott Campbell

Letter To Reader

Dearest Reader

There are times wherein I don't feel like blogging another post.  It has been two weeks since my last.  I want you to know that I want to share my thoughts and feelings with you and with whomever else finds their way to this blog.  I want what I write to be of benefit to you.  I am in the process of publishing my poetry book, something I have dreamed of for some years.  I have a twofold purpose in this message: To let you know where things stand, and to do something to hold myself more accountable.  If you want to help in this endeavor, please send your positive thoughts/prayers/beliefs in as close to my direction as you can stomach.  To you dear Reader, my spirit-sibling, thank you for reading and thank you for your help.

Adam Scott Campbell

Rushing Toward Me

I was falling very quickly.  Ground rushed toward my face.
Wished, I, for help.  Yet I called not for God's own grace.
I felt that there was naught in me to warrant such demands.
God would do what God would do.  I'd not mess up His plans.

I thought of all things I had felt, and heard, and known, and seen,
The mountains, birds, plants, animals, rocks, lakes and streams.
Each had brought me comfort.  Such beauty ever does.
One might ask me, "Was it worth it?" I'd look, and say it was.

It was worth my pains, my agonies, my deepest wounds, my scars.
It was worth my wretchedness at gazing helpless at bright stars.
It was worth the sore soul-changing that simply had to be.
It was worth the anguish of years-poison burning out of me.

You, dearest Reader, may wonder just what IT was.
Was what worth it?  Why must I write "Because..."?
Why would I go through what I have and suffer very sore?
Twas a very simple reason- I wished to touch one more.

If one more heart of one more soul of one more child of God
Could benefit from words of one who oft thinks himself odd,
Then even if that heart never feels the words I wrote,
I'd write them.  I'd hurt far more, not scribbling a note.

I would pray and I would hope and I would hope and I would pray
That some small word of mine might take the night and make it day.
That night-turned-day would shed its light on heart that does not feel,
And maybe, just maybe, that one heart could start, at last, to heal.

The ground is rushing toward me.  Now what do I do?
Will this bit of rhyme ever find its way to you?
I feel at last my wanting, from whence my anguish stems.
I cry out to my Father God, "I want to stay, for them!"

An instant of black.  I awake, sun shining through window.
I yet live, I yet breathe.  Yes, tis grace, I know.
God wants me to live.  To live by Him alone.
From dark to light, to day from night... I've learned, and I have grown.

Adam Scott Campbell

Your Worth

My candle burns so brightly.  It keeps the dark at bay.
While in my heart I feel the start of yet another day.
Each adversary prowls along the edge of my small light.
I prepare me now.  There soon begins a fight.

My sword arm wields no weapon.  There's no shield in my hand.
Though I am feeling stronger.  This battle was long planned!
The weapon of testimony, my boundless certainty,
Will carry this fight forward.  Tis my faith that protects me.

I know the Rock I stand on.  How oft I've turned aside,
When some insidious whispering murmured, "But you've tried..."
While such is good, and needed, tis not near enough.
I knew then, I know now, I must still try when things get rough.

You, O Reader, hoping for hope, while the dark grows bleak,
You, too, can build on the Rock you may not know you seek.
When so much light you gather that you cannot help but share,
Of danger and of grace you find yourself very aware.

I am no well-versed pastor.  I am no preacher great.
But I know light and dark.  In me each claims a stake.
I know that you, O Reader, are also wanted dear.
For you, dark foes gather.  For you, angels shed tear.

I do not speak these heavy words for to make you afraid.
I'm urging you to get on God's path.  Once you're on, to stay.
I've gotten off and stayed off, for weeks and months so long.
I knew, yet refused to know. that I was going wrong.

Your God is your own Father.  He aches to hold you close,
To protect you from the darkness when each dark thing He knows.
You're worth more than you realize.  You are why this battle's fought.
Speak to your Father God.  You'll find the light for which you've sought.

Adam Scott Campbell

As Thou Wilt

I would stand in the midst, a squadron on one side,

Another on another, my hands and feet all tied.

I would have peace, knowing I gave another shot,

And a second and a third, for all for which I've fought.

My last thoughts would be of precious souls I've known,

Of words said and felt.  Of sacred compassion shown.

My last prayer would be like those uttered in past.

I'd beg for those still hurting, that God would heal them fast.

All the wounds, scars, and blemishes that my spirit shows

I'd plead that God would heal me, as my final moment flows.

Hands that have done both good and evil- such tied hands, mine-

Itch to show a final bit of kindness, to give some parting sign.

What can I give to make one last mark on this earth?

How can I help someone, anyone, learn their eternal worth?

Where dare I place my bets, to hope some pure soul rise?

Only by example, some small, inner voice cries.

If you who read these words care to take them to your core,

I dare to think them, that you may find your life is more.

If life means anything, or might mean something, to you,

Then do as I do now, when my life is done and through.

I kneel, as death hurls itself at my mortal frame.

I speak, and give voice to a sacred Name.

Tis the name of the God who gave me life,

Though oft I've wished to end it, by flame, or fume, or knife.

I then speak three words that sum up all I feel

After what I've done to try to help each wound heal.

Bullets and intentions, now buried to the hilt.

To my God, while they bury, "As thou wilt."

Mirror, Mirror On The Way

Mirror, Mirror On The Wall,
Does balm exist for us, at all?
Will we find Elixir's call
Waits to help us stand tall?
Shall mended hearts and souls
Make paths to all our goals?
Shall said balm repair each hole
When every one has played a role?
Mirror, Mirror On The Way.
We pass you, hopeful, today.
Though joyed the sight, we can't stay.
Our destiny calls for no delay.
Wish us well, that God bless our road.
We've shouldered well our carried load.
We've ever "survived"- we change our mode.
Of eternal life we sing an ode.
Mirror, Mirror On The Son
Lets us see just what's been done.
We've crawled, and walked, and jogged, and run,
It's not been easy, nor always fun,
But knowing now just who we are-
God's own children, come so far-
It seems that just to touch one star...
We know we are more than this.  We are.
We will touch each one- and more.
We will find the worth cradled in our core.
We'll find the Light we hold in store.
We seek Heaven, and find an open door.
We'll walk through, and know we belong.
Gone every pain.  Healed every wrong.
Joy overflowed makes easy our song.
Struggle now gone has made us strong.

Adam Scott Campbell

Heaven Knows We Need It

who touched you?
who reached inside you? or
stumbled,
beat up and
bruised and
broken
to find themselves on the threshold of your heart-castle,
hurting for what they didn't have inside?
who did not belong anywhere near
your sanctuary?
who did you let in anyway, feeling
that if you didn't,
they would be lost forever, not understanding
their own worth
their own talents
their own worthy dream?
who has crossed your way, needing human touch
in a world getting colder, and
more hardened, and
less concerned with the sanctity of human life
than with the desire to be free?
what did you find sitting in your sanctuary
after being gone for so long?
was it a heart other than your own,
waiting for you,
hoping for you,
hurting for you
dying but still breathing
for you?
do you know your purpose
here on earth?
do you understand how vital you are
to me
to God
to every soul you come across
on your earthly journey?
I need you
yes, you, you who read this
to reach out
to someone
to anyone
who has a heart that beats.
they hurt
and have hurt
for so long that they may not know how hurt they are.
help them to know that you know hurt, too.
help them to know that they are not alone
in a world of over seven billion people,
help them to know that hurt doesn't hurt
anywhere near as much when someone cares.
let them know you care.
make your part of the world
a little warmer
heaven knows we need it

Dare To Keep Breathing

I've been through the mill.  So have you.  So has she.  So has he.
I'm still here.
So are you.
So is she.
So is he.
You began the journey of life a long time ago.
Do you remember your beginning?
Have you decided when, and how, you will finish?
I've walked, and stumbled, and crawled through perilous, raging-white flame.
So have you.
So has she.
So has he.
We are still breathing, though I know breathing is more difficult for some.
What would you do, if one you loved couldn't breathe,
And you were given the chance to trade your breathing for theirs?
You would make the trade.  I know you would.  That is is what love is about.
How would you feel, knowing you had sacrificed your way of life
So that they could have their own life more abundantly?
How would you feel, in a hospital gown, with breathing tubes and IVs and
Monitoring equipment hooked up to your body, complete with beeping
And humming noises threatening your sanity with their repetition,
Knowing that your sacrifice has enabled someone's freedom?
How would you view yourself?
As a hero?
As a warrior?
As a golden-hearted miracle touching the lives of other miracles?
However you've suffered,
Whatever your personalized, soul-crushing fires have done to you,
Remember the things you have fought through and are fighting through.
Look at the real You.
The You that still fights on.
It doesn't matter what your chances are.
What matters is that you take your chances, and run with them
Or walk
Or crawl
Or sit in a bed hooked up to a breathing tube and IVs, and
Dare to keep breathing.

Adam Scott Campbell

What If

What would happen if every dream you held inside your heart
were all at once granted wings to fly and each soul-shattering pain
relieved and released from its grip on you, and abuse were halted
and ceased and made no more, and what if the only tears you
ever cried were tears of joy, and all your stumbles and trips and
faceplants in the mud made you laugh at the cartoon-esque vision
of yourself that was planted in your brain, and what would happen
if you were given a glimpse of the afterlife, in all its breathtaking
glory, and  you saw yourself as you really were, a brilliant, talented,
precious, worthwhile human being and child of Almighty God, who
did what you were called to do and meant to do, and the mistakes
you'd made in this life were swallowed up whole in the glory and
joy of Deity, in whose presence you now dwelt with all those you
loved, happy and saved and quickened and glorified, with all your
wounds and pains and scars healed so completely that you can
hardly remember them or find their shadows upon your soul, and
what would happen if words of hope were spoken by everyone
you came in contact with, and each soul had a reason to smile
and took advantage of the opportunity, and what would happen if
you took what you learned through your personalized struggles
and pains and agonies and chose to show a fellow sufferer how
your difficulties have taught you to persevere through it all be-
cause only when you persevere do you have the opportunity to fix
what's wrong and chalk one up for the good guys, and what
would happen if you saw the sufferings of those who worked
and sweat and breathed all round you, both friend and enemy,
and knew deep inside you that they each have a heart that beats
and pores that sweat and bleed and a soul of worth equal to yours,
and what would happen if you remembered to look at the bright
side however small that side may seem while you feel you have
been or are being torn apart but not allowed to be done, and what
will happen when you take your next step and come to know that
you still have ground to walk on, or skip on, or roll on, or just sit on,
and you still, you still, you still have the option of moving forward
to a glorious future?  What will happen?

Adam Scott Campbell

Deepest Wish

I walk to the edge.  I look all around.
Wind on this cliff's height.
I have not will to make a sound.
My muscles, lungs... heart... so tight.

I walk to the edge.  I look left and right.
Motored metal roaring past.
The darkest tunnel.  I see a light.
It draws nearer, coming at last.

I walk to the edge.  In a garage.
Motored metal, quiet, here.
Key in my pocket, safety's mirage.
Door shut, fume-danger so near.

I walk to the edge.  In hospital cell,
Forehead strikes the wall.
Here after months and years of hell.
"Stop," comes the intercom's call.

I walk to the edge.  Throat forms a lump.
I've stayed off my meds so long.
On back of my head, a long, scar-ish bump.
I was called to this.  They think me wrong.

I walk to the edge.  Tears streak my face.
I've no desire to stay on.
Stay on, I will, in this Journey-Not-Race.
My strength, my vision, gone.

I walk to the edge, many others behind,
Begging me to come back.
I have, on all levels, lost my pained mind.
But peace I, still, so lack.

I walk to the edge.  I turn away,
Knowing tis not the right.
Many may beg me stay,
But I walk by my own sight.

I walk from the edge, seeing you as you come,
Wanting what I have, too.
I know your thought far better that some.
I've another thought for you.

If you walk to that edge and keep on walking,
It will not be your end.
There is life after this life, but what kind?
It depends.

If you take this life and choose to snuff it out,
However miserable you may be,
You'll be far more miserable,
Having harmed your eternity.

I know this.  I know misery.
I've hurt in hell, too.
Find a reason to keep living.  This is
My Deepest Wish For You.

Adam Scott Campbell

Soul-Angel

Sword arm pauses.  War-heat recedes.
Sacred soul-sister silently pleads
For only peace, which never has been.
Only has such been seen within
A soul with the humblest, most basic needs.

That soul I've fleetingly seen before,
Crossing my path when I'd naught left in store-
Nothing to which war-poet may run.
Soul-sister - Soul Angel - seeing poet undone,
Paused, to hand war-poet gold from her Core.

Now that the struggle nears grateful end,
War-poet's Soul-Angel finds him again,
On bloody battlefield, the fallen all round.
He lays still and quiet on stained, grass-less ground
Soul Angel holds his lifeless, talented hand.

"Where go we now, soul-poet?" cries she.
"Where is the hope for two such as we?
Ever you struggle, stumble and cease,
While angels sue to grant another life-lease
To you, hoping someday to bring you to me."

"If there were no God," croaks war-poet.  She starts.
"...then there'd be no hope for dead, shattered hearts.
No love, nor joy.  No sorrow, nor pain.
No wondrous bleach-water for eternal stain.
No creation.  No science.  No need for the arts."

"Just so, dear poet," she breathes in, relieved.
"But it's you has always and ever believed.
I want you to persevere through it all."
"I do.  I shall, though I batter steel walls,
But admit it.  You, also, have always believed."

"True," she smiles gently.  "Tis truth you speak.
No matter how strong, no matter how weak,
I will always have faith that triumph you'll find,
No matter how very far you unwind,
No matter how much life-water you leak."

Soul-poet saved, yet another time,
On Almighty God's e'er- gracious dime,
By angels, whose purity bring me to squint,
Dull, indeed, seem both steel and flint,
Compared to an angel's brilliant soul-shine.

Adam Scott Campbell

Angel, Angel, So Wounded

What did he do?  Tear you apart?
Did he reach into your most sacred heart,
And with the treasures he found hidden there,
Build a fortress, stone walls without,
And lock you out, ere you were aware?

What does he see, once he turns the key?
Do hallowed heart-halls make him wish to flee?
Does Wounded Forever, in the air,
Cause this invader to fall on his face,
On glass floor, in sanctuary-now-lair?

"Wicked wolf, wicked wolf, let her back in!"
I cry to the beast locked deep within.
But wolf, having taken what can't be returned,
Shattered two souls in one evil move.
Was it far too late for wolf to learn?

You, O Wounded angel I saw
Standing soul-shattered with no balm at all,
No healing, no defense where legions should stand,
Blades ready, to defend only you,
God has GOOD things, healing things planned.

No angel, no healer, no wise man writes this,
But God can re-form all your stolen bliss.
Turn, quickly, to The-Hand-That-Wrote-All.
God's Hand can rewrite your future,
From this horrendous fall.

Angel, Angel, so wounded, so pure,
I cannot tell you, "You have to endure."
You shouldn't have to.  But I hope you choose
To keep persevering.
I hope you will choose.

Adam Scott Campbell

You Have A Choice

When you feel so very much that your mind begins to tear,
When every word makes wounds spread over every thought and care,
When those you love, though present, seem too far to touch,
You wonder when you'll know peace, and if it costs too much.

When you feel so very deeply that feeling seems a curse,
When one more drop of hardship makes you feel you are immersed,
When living feels a death sentence, and death, the kindest grace,
You do not know why you try daily to save face.

When feeling people hurts, but not knowing how to shield,
When knowing you were hurting, not knowing how you healed,
When surrounded by hurt, no matter where you turn,
You ache to feel more like them, in hopes that you would learn.

When words you speak, meant to help, cause only further pain,
When all your tidying up leaves only dirt and stain,
When recipients of your good intentions think you full of it,
You have a choice.  You can persevere, or you can quit.

You can quit.  You can lay down in the crummy dirt, to stay.
You can throw away your tomorrows, and finish your last day.
You can turn a blind eye to the others who, round you, lie,
When deep inside you lives someone you know won't stay to die.

You have this choice.  No matter what your state, it's there.
You know what you will do.  You know.  You know you care.
You will get up, fast or slow, but no matter, you'll persevere.
Seconds, or minutes, or hours, or days, or weeks, or months, or years.

When you get back up, others will still lie around.
Go to just one of them.  Help just one rise from the ground.
That someone, whomever they are, will help you then to heal.
This is the treasure waiting,
For those
Who dare
To feel.

Adam Scott Campbell

Grace

Cross-legged on a mountainside,

Back against a tree,

I feel others nearing

Whom I neither hear nor see.

Though my eyes are open,

I see no one at all.

I care not for comfort.

I wish to hear and heed the call.

I've waited to hear it,

Call to make eternal rhyme.

But long though I have waited,

I know it's not my time.

My mind is onward reaching,

Tendrils sent throughout

All the earth beneath me,

Those who live within and out.

I feel them drawing closer,

Angels, my wound, to heal.

Suffered on the battlefield,

I wished not to feel.

Deepest gash in my right side,

Much life fell therefrom.

While I try to right the scale,

And gain a happier sum.

Hands of heaven, gentle, touch

Where foe's death-blade fell,

In a try to make writer-warrior's

Soul-body well.

Too much life-water lost,

More angels kneel around.

Hands on head, arms, back, chest,

They make not one sound.

But I yet do feel it,

The love they pour inside

Brought from our Heavenly Father,

Love wide.  Eternity-wide.

I'm filled with such soul-balm

I've not felt.  Now I taste.

This, that I might share

This, God's own grace.

This prayer I offer you.

This, Grace shared anew.

Grace, and all God's angels
I beg God to help you, too.

Adam Scott Campbell

A Son Returns Home- An Inn Called See 2

Words, and battles, and kinship made strong...
Warrior and I have traveled long.
Many weeks have passed for I and for he
Since we sat at oak table, in the inn called See.

Now we have come to what once I named home.
I know not how to call it my own.
How will they receive me, after all that's been done?
What songs, in my absence, have they wept and sung?

The village seems peaceful, though silent tis not.
A lump in my throat rises and is caught.
Midst the clay huts is one I know best.
Twas where I was born.  I feel pain at my chest.

An old man sits outside the doorway.
Two small children, at his feet, play.
Behind the man's chair, an angel stands,
On the man's shoulders rests her tired hands.

My warrior friend, looking over can see
The troubled heart written on the face of me.
Knowing this task is one I must do,
He stands waiting, silent.  I murmur, "Thank you."

"...Thank you, my friend, for coming so far.
We have traveled by sunlight, by moon and by star.
Much have you suffered that I might understand
The path fashioned by a far wiser Hand."

"You've helped, by your presence, the heart inside
To walk through a poet's fear-hardened pride.
Further harm may be done here this day...
Will you come, to see if they'll let me stay?"

A slow smile spreads.  That pure heart I see
Shine through warrior's eyes gazing at me.
"Of course, good bard," speaks my kindly friend.
"We do this together." His hand he extends...

...Among clay huts, toward angel and old man
We now walk.  Old man struggles to stand.
Reaching she and he, I kneel at his feet.
"Please!  Rise not for one such as me!"

"I left your side!  I walked a strange path.
So much I've done to earn only wrath
From you who did all to save what was dead.
You should cast only curse down on my head!"

Tears fall down an old man's cheeks.
Angel walks around, kneels beside me,
Throws her arms round my shoulders.
A mother's embrace.  I feel younger.  I feel older.

"O, my dear, sweet son," says she, slow.
"Welcome home.  I've missed you so!"
Her words are strong, as ever they were.
An inner ocean storm begins to stir.

I want not to tremble and quake,
But one poet's frame starts to shake
I've locked them inside for years upon years-
Down my cheeks stream most painful tears.

Then on my shoulder, his hand comes to rest.
"Son," his voice breaks, "You make me so blessed.
I thought that I never again would see
Your face.  Your absence has sorely pained me."

"Now you return.  I beg you to stay.
You've traveled so far to get here today.
Your spirit is aching.  Be you healed.
Rise you.  You've no need to kneel."

I stand.  And so does he.
My father's aged arms wrap around me.
"Welcome home," he says very low.
"Now," he adds, turning. "I think here's one I know."

My friend, his slow smile spreading,
Takes proffered hand.  My father, not letting
Him off so easily, pulls him close.
Warriors need hugs, too, this poet knows.

A son returns home.  Wounds heal.  Tears dry.
My warrior friend makes home in a hut near mine.
My heart is healed of pain wrought back when.
I'm grateful, that I can love full again.

Adam Scott Campbell

Shattered. But. Listening.

Feel you somber?  Feel you sad?
Seem all your dreams so crushed?
Have you fallen?  Are you mocked
For every time you've blushed?
Has heart inside, too great to quit,
Slowly let out life,
While you are made to walk on,
Under threat of knife?
Has talent God once gave you
Seem ever to fall short,
Or are your pathways threatened
By enemy, sword, and fort?
Are you harmed by those
Who could shield you from scarring?
Do any drag you to their fight,
To share in hurtful warring?
Do you wish for more
Than what's been handed you?
Would you walk out from hell
If you only knew what to do?
If I knew the way for you,
And could point the way,
Would you leave your hell behind,
And walk out,
Today?
You, O child of God,
With sacred, dream-filled heart,
I know where there's help,
Where you may make a good start.
Message me, email me,
When such is what you need.
Call me planter, if you wish
For I, now, plant a seed.
I am no gloried angel,
For all that I've been through.
I'm truly soul-shattered,
But I'll listen,
Dearest Reader,
To you.

Adam Scott Campbell

Today

There's war.
There's kindness.
There's love.
There's hate.

Today I write of all of these,
Hoping that for you, Reader,
It is neither far too early,
Nor everlastingly too late.

I warred so much,
Naught else I knew.
I desired to be in pieces.
I wished that life were through.
I wished mortal, or immortal hand
To take me out of the game.
The mortal hand was mine,
The immortal had a Holy Name.

Immortal would not,
Mortal was not allowed.
I dared not take
What Heaven hallowed.
But desperation grew
Stronger day and night.
Till one desire I knew.
I wished an end to life.

Tis years now.
Mere weeks since I've found
I wish for life,
Here, on mortal ground.
We smile, you and I.
We laugh and say we're fine.
How oft, on lies and poetry,
We sit, and quaff our wine.

Did heartbroken friend,
Torn to shreds inside,
Tell you she was "good,"
When soon you learned she lied?
Did some battered stranger
Fall across your path?
Were you inclined to kindness,
Or to vengeful wrath?

I look around me.
You.  Me.  They.
I stay.  I help.  I try.
Today.

Adam Campbell

Hands That Heal

Hands that heal.  Hands that touch.
Hands that trade wings for my crutch.
Hands that I once fled for fear.
Hands that, now, I want more near.

Hands that belonged to a foe.
Hands that changed.  Hands that know
Whence grows my pain.  Hands that feel
Each pained tendon.  Pain so real.

Hands touching my lower back.
Could there be a kinder attack?
Kindness appearing as pained balm.
I start to tense.  Says she, "Be calm."

Words of power.  Words so few
Reteach me, time number two,
That, herein, I have naught to dread.
Her hand touches back of my head.

Hand-memory comes pouring in.
Brain surgery. Head trauma, within.
Hands that stole tumors in red.
How much of red fled my head?

Hands so cruel.  Hands so kind.
Hands that since have crossed my mind.
Hands never staying for good.
I knew not whether they should.

Hands of angels, grasping my frame,
When I'd all but lost my name,
When I'd forgot the feel of balm.
Says she, the second time, "Be calm."

Words of caring, rife with love,
Remind me of love above.
Reminiscing as I do,
I remember loving you.

Hands of love still touch my head,
I lay quiet in hospital bed.
While an angel whispers sweet,
"Until next time, my love, we meet."

Slowly and yet quickly too,
She is gone, as once were you.
I lay here in sacred bed,
Where heaven's hands have soothed my head.

Hands and head and body through,
Never feel completely new.
Not pain nor soothing I'd undo
If I were given option to.

Adam Scott Campbell

Fight

There's darkness and evil and total war
Locked by a key and laid up in store,
But goodness, and light, and peace kept within...
The battle that's waged... I yet can still win.

Hope, and Faith, and sweet Charity,
Still holding on in the depths of me,
Enable me now, as ever before,
To never think the words, I quit!  No more!

I want the evil!  So badly, I do.
It fills me, overflowing anew.
But if both joy and pleasure were one,
Would not good and evil, as such, be undone?

So long has my mind been altered and changed,
That I do not know a soul-empty pain.
Each has purpose, and so joy and pleasure.
Pain and joy grow in equal measure.

I can imagine, midst great pain, a glimpse
Of angels' arms round me, while I stumble and wince.
Is my thought dead?  Has my mind gone?
Might such defending thought be wrong?

I don't know. I know I want more.
Sand, salty waves on a cool blissful shore.
Warm, slender arms reaching, holding me tight.
A special someone helping me cease the fight.

I hope for this end, that someday twill be.
Meanwhile, the battle rages inside of me.
May God ever grant a poet Mercy,
And Hope, and Faith, and sweet Charity.

Adam Scott Campbell

Gold To Threatened

The blackened sheet, the near-destroyed

Dream with which I've ever toyed...

Shall the millions waiting

Be enthralled, or be annoyed?

Out of my fire, barely saved, 

Comes this priceless, hated page.

Was my Dream well-aimed, or poor,

When it, to man, I gave?

In my Core, where I've returned,

Revisiting what I've learned,

Upon this hearth I gently place

Written lessons I've discerned.

Pained learnings of a mind quite sore

Remind me what I did it for-

This life of stunning, priceless thorn-

Here in my invincible Core.

Thousands of pages, still waiting,

A Dream that soothes the hating...

What can a dream battler do

To keep dream, and hate, from mating?

Upon the hearth, my hand, all red

From life-water it has bled.

No apologies for the words

That, from my heart, I said.

Knowing not the whole, entire

Cost that might come from my ire,

I have saved the cover, too,

From my homemade fire.

I know nothing.  I know not

Twixt page's type, what lives are caught.

Knowing, though, I mustn't quit.

I do that which I ought.

I take threatened pages, as one,

Off the hearth.  They are not done.

I also take my crystal pen, of

Golden ink, I once won.

Millions of words written, for

Each soul having much in store.

Millions written, I must write

All that I have come here for.

Gold-filled crystal, here in my Core,

Gold to threatened,  I write one more.
Tis you, O Reader, I write it for.

Adam Scott Campbell

You And Me

No great miracle, no stark disaster, no mortal angel's sweet embrace
Can command a child of Almighty God to refuse a strong taste
Of one more breath, of possibility's greatest chance.
Nothing can make you or I change or surrender our stance,
Even were our spirit pierced by needle, sword, or lance

Someone hurt you, reached out, touched you, when you'd lost each shield.
No weapon had you, from either left hand or right, to wield.
The hurt was unintended.  Your perceived foes merely ached
For your weakened hand to reach out.  They'd then take
It, lead you home, and reconciliation make.

Torn ligaments, muscles, tendons, heartstrings...
You lost the way to your dance floor, forgot how to sing,
Took your beat up muscle that you once called your heart,
And threw it far from you, hoping it never again would start.
But later steps remind you.  Broken hearts make great art.

How many have you aided?  How many aided you?
This far on your stormy journey, have you relearned what's true?
Have you seen God's hand working wonders in your life?
Stranger says, "Hello," when you wish to quit for strife.
Kindness can cut deeper than malice's jagged knife.

Should some soul in agony, pleading, cross your way,
Be the neighborly soul who saves him or her, today.
One who wants to be there, beyond all reach may be.
You who him or her, their struggle can see,
Can help them.  This is a writer's heartfelt plea.

Such deeds save you and me.

Adam Scott Campbell

I Am Sure

I jumped over rocks.  I stumbled and fell.
Such clumsiness I knew all too well.
While others I viewed appeared straight and tall,
So often my way seemed only to fall.
This was my thought.  Then I heard a strong call.

"Never seem they fall," said call did say.
"Ever they seem to know the best way,
While you still fall, and bruise, and bleed.
They climb the branches, they top the tree,
While you granted height, for you planted the seed."

"Not long past, seeds you did spread,
Hoping only to soon grant good bread
To any who hungered for life more real,
That those who wanted it could start to feel
The wonder of a shattered heart newly healed."

Now I make haste to try, try again.
No matter what's happened just now or back then.
To always give it another go.
I don't "make an appearance," or put on a show.
But I'll put up a fight, this I and others know.

My legacy, such as it is, includes
My rolling in mud, my knack to choose
The treacherous path, the unsafe way,
The depressed, unkind thing to say,
But I will not give up, no, not today.

You, O Reader, also have inside you
The strength and courage to try it anew.
No avalanche, storm, or disaster that strikes
Can convince you, not ever, not to try.
I know the reason.  I know the why.

You are destined for greatness. You may ask how
I know this, since I live only in now.
Think on all the struggles you endure.
These are serving to make you more pure.
You will succeed.  I promise.  I am sure.

Uncommon Commoner

True love approaches, enemy nears.
One warrior princess battles her fears,
While true love, also, fights to be freed
From his own fear-periled, conflicted need

A desire to live... the need to preserve
Warrior princess, whom he loves to serve.
Wise peasant boy who once saved his queen,
Twixt valor and discretion he's caught and seen.

Princes have sought the princess' favor.
Ever he's been engaged in hard, honest labor.
Though warrior princess loves him strong,
Both of them wonder if love can go wrong.

Enemy to both, prince number eight
Wants, for his crown, to be princess' fate.
But prince number eight, pushing up close,
Is given, of steel eyes, a most-needed dose

Backing off quickly, prince has a glimpse
Of wise peasant boy, at heart a true prince,
Afraid at nothing but his own soul.
Peasant boy makes a try at a noble goal.

"She does not love you," says peasant boy.
"She is naught to you but a tool, a toy.
Yet she's worth more than all under the sky.
She has but one true love.  It is I."

Prince's eyes glare at peasant in rage.
How dare a commoner try for center stage!
But princess, seeing by love's words the way,
Steps to peasant, bids him forever stay

"If you'll be mine, to have and to hold,"
Quotes princess, in her usual bold.
"I will be yours forever to be.
I feel this is right in the heart of me."

And so it is.  Prince slinks away.
Princess and peasant wed the following day.
Queen, who peasant saved not long past,
Blesses their union forever to last.

Now all that's left is what in this heart be.
I would like this to happen to me.

Adam Scott Campbell

Meant To

Two angels, so beautiful, at left and at right.
Both here to heal me at the end of this fight.
Never thought I that both could endure
This broken descent to the Me-No-More-Pure.
Of earning their aid, I've ne'er been less sure.

While one holds to my right, and the other my left,
The feeling of self-worth I've long been bereft.
No angels so holy their glory doth blind,
Their mortal sisters show what tis to be kind
To the owner of a sin-swept mind.

Gazing from top of mountain so great,
I see my destiny, my so-wished-for fate.
While much anguish awaits me still,
Of beat-down despair I've more than my fill.
I'm held together by naught more than will.

Led step by step to the height of this mount,
With each stride they'd helped me recount
Every success and every downfall,
Each time I'd run headfirst into a wall.
I reached the summit feeling strong, fit, and tall.

Then gazing out over vistas grand,
I find my peace still intact, though unplanned.
Some unbeatable, indomitable Me
Cannot stay down forever in misery.
Decades may pass, but I'll be made free.

Now you, too, on top of some great height,
Though you have fear, are not shackled by fright.
Your freedom from despair lies in fresh steps.
You still hope, dream and try.  Vigil you've kept.
You run, you've sprinted, each log you've leapt.

Now is our time to do and not die.
Friend, stretch your wings, spread them, and fly.
You're meant to.
So am I.

Adam Scott Campbell

Frozen Angels

They have the way to change you,
So broken though you be.
Life has never laid you low,
Though it's brought you to one knee.

In pain but with great plenty,
You still choose to endure.
Through the mire, and the fire,
You will one day be pure.

They yet can somehow change you-
Angels in mortal frame.
A curse pushes you farther.
A kind word will make you tame.

In frozen state they find you,
Ages of icy stone.
Layer upon layer,
And now totally alone.

Angels lay their hands down
On arm, on cheek, on knee.
Angels' touch makes embittered,
Frozen warrior free.

Angels' touch meant for others,
Suffering frozen too.
Angels reaching out,
Reaching now,
To you.

Freeing others wishing free.
Is this your wish, too?
Will you next be rescued?
Do you wish them, this, to do?
I will tell you now-
They want to.

Adam Scott Campbell

So Deep

You hurt so deep it killed you,

And yet you would still breathe.

For the sake of friendship,

You wouldn’t, you could not leave.

So much that you’d been through,

The battles lost and won,

The souls both healed and wounded,

Your fighting strength was done.

Each friend you’d gained languished

On some far desert isle.

Your pleas for battle aid

Went unheard so long a while,

At some point you chose to stop

Hoping someone would near.

Perhaps there was no one out there

Who might ever hear.

Perhaps you were alone, at last,

And one, only, was nigh.

The one who saw you last, ‘fore birth,

Who’d be first, when you would die.

You had no pressing appointments.

You fell down to both knees,

As you cried out in anguish,

“O my Father, please help me!”

No blinding light, nor angels’ chorus,

Nor even mortal friend

Appeared to bring you comfort,

As you cried louder then.

“I’ve tried and I have fallen,

So very far, far deep,

I know not how I’m still going.

I’ve no more hope to keep.

“My friends have gone and left me.

I have not wish for life.

I desire to be near thee

Most now, in midst of strife.

Please come and bear me up,

O my Redeemer, Savior, Friend.

On thee, I, now and ever,

Forever will depend.”

Your heart’s most sincere anguish,

Your mind’s most vicious pain.

Inside you deep there languished

Virtues, long dormant lain.

While all the hosts of heaven

You imagined cheered you on,

Other, darker battalions

Sang a very different song.

Each force seemed united

In a single, focused aim-

To make you one of them.

They begin to call your name.

Their voices are compelling.

You wish to join their throng.

The chorus of one enthralls you.

But the other sounds so strong.

Which will you choose?  With whom serve you?

A side to take great glory?

Or a side that gives all honor

To the author of your story?

If you give your all, as is,

To God who grants you air.

He’ll give His all to you.

An eternal, loving Share.

Adam Scott Campbell

The Greatest Good

First I was an animal, a jungle cat so wild.
I fought each day.  I sought new ways,
My prey to beguile.
I then became a boulder on a grassy mountain's side,
Covered with fuzz.  I loved it because
I did not have to try.
I changed into a plant, a beautiful petaled rose.
My defense was beauty, I could see
Twas the best I'd ever chose.
A petaled rose, a boulder, a jungle cat that fought.
Each had worth, no matter their girth.
The same they were not.
I then sat down to tell a tale about these parties three,
How each had part, and found their start,
In the heart of me.
But when I lifted hand to put ink down on page,
My Muse took me, carried me on,
To another age.
Twas a peculiar age.  Every living soul
Had their vice, had their vocation,
Had their own set goal.
Their goals were good and lofty, they each aimed so high
They had drive too.  What they didn't do.
Was care for each other's try.
I looked upon their beauty. I viewed their talent great
I started to weep. For all their great power,
They left so much to fate.
I stuck out my tongue, I caught a tear, I had a salty taste.
In my mind, a gentle, kind, beautiful thought
Was placed.
If you write a hundred million words, and, with them, 
Help to save one soul, you will have done the greatest good,
And exceeded the highest goal.

Adam Scott Campbell

I Made A Butterfly

I made a butterfly.  I breathed him to life.
I watched him flutter away.
A part of me wished he'd fly far and well.
Another, that he would stay.
A third part of me, the strongest yet,
Wanted, him, to be,
For oft in life I have this wish to be
Anything but me.
Whose butterfly have I been?
Do any wish to be me?
Or are all glad they aren't confused, like me,
When they look around to see?
I made a butterfly.  He said to take heart.
I had not known I could.
But if I could create such living beauty,
Maybe, probably, I should.
When I make another butterfly,
Will anyone take note?
Or will no one remember the precious, sacred, wondrous things
I wrote?
She was a sorrowing friend of a friend.
A friend that pulled her close,
Brought her to me, to hear inspiration.
I gave her another's dose.
For when words come without forethought
To the mind I own,
I know that Someone Else has planted
The words I reap, all grown.
I made a butterfly.
My butterfly saved a life.
As another sought to end her own,
Suffering in her strife.
She then went, got on a train,
And seeing a stranger, smiled.
This stranger, suffering too,
Will now still live a while.
It's hard at times to try, again,
Not knowing, always, why.
But when you see someone in need,
Pause
To make a butterfly.

Adam Scott Campbell

Garden Of The Heart

I had unending happiness.
It slipped out of my hand.
I wanted to hold tighter,
But without strength to stand,
There was naught to grip
Eternities my hand spanned.
I felt that I had wrecked
Every glory God had planned.

Downcast and fainthearted,
I could not see my goal.
Motivation, once an asset,
No longer played a role.
Excitement for the future
Sadly wore a hole.
Such reaping was all mine,
For all the lives I stole.

I had everything required.
Yet, a heart of greed
Would not be satisfied
With just the basic needs.
And so in my heart sown
Two very different seeds.
One grows the greenest garden.
One, a forest of weeds.

I love my beautiful garden,
Full of life all through.
Digging, and pruning, and keeping,
Growing life anew,
These are joyful things
That I just love to do.
Every few days I give
A worded plant to you.

But my weedy forest,
Just across the way,
Will breach the garden wall
With a vine or branch today.
I must then take some tool,
And ensure weeds don't stay.
It has power to depress me.
I yet must not delay.

Perhaps you, as well, midst
Paradisiacal green,
Find that weeds encroaching
Infringe on heaven's scene.
Your heart, also,
Knowing both kind and mean,
May be weed enshrouded,
But it is no menial thing.
Tis worth the weeding.
Tis the heart of queen or king.

My Vow

I threw it down, I wiped my hands,
I turned and walked away.
My every secret, all my darkness,
Each teardrop displayed.
So sick of carrying it all alone,
In order to survive,
I was required to be vulnerable
So as to stay alive.

Twas years ago, my darkness now,
More deathly than before,
Is written one page at a time,
Words my heart has in store.
No matter how great the number,
How many stanzas show,
There are more waiting in the dark
Whene'er I dare to go.

Tis the light that loves me.
Tis the dark that seeks my life.
Since both have root inside me,
I am embroiled in strife.
One candle in the darkness,
Two hands that clench it tight.
I am attracted to the darkness,
But I will not release my light.

Tis a war that has never failed
To be waged night and day.
I cannot force those I harm
To return, or to stay.
But if light from my candle,
Travels all the way to you,
May it help you on your journey
And give hope to push on through.

I give you, dear Reader,
A promise and a vow.
I will not quit the fight,
Not ever, no matter how.
Tis an eternal battle.
I have an eternal soul.
I will keep pushing for
The highest of any goal.

Tis the goal I've ever had
Through my most painful strife.
Tis the purpose of my existence.
It is eternal life.

Fly Through The Storm

Sometimes I feel I'm doing alright.  Like my feet are finally set on the right path for me.  The path that will bring me greatest happiness, at the end and on my way there.  Sometimes I like what I feel.

Sometimes a natural disaster occurs right in the middle of my path.  I can be watching it happen.  It can happen to the spot I'm standing on.  

I can feel every bit of it.  I can bow my head and let the misery wash over me.  I can walk into the disaster, and reach out to others.  I can save lives with a word, or a hug.  I can help.

I can numb myself to the pain.  I can step outside myself and bypass my life for a while.  And when I return, people are hurt, and I'm standing here wondering how I can help when I cannot empathize.

It ought to be an easy choice for me.  It ought to be.  Yet so often I numb myself in self defense. When I don't, lives are touched, I can see clearly, and the hurt is felt to my core.

Much is stored here.  I know so little next to many others.  But I know enough to get up when I fall.  I just fear that others are pulled down with me in my falling.  That hurts worse, watching it happen.

I know enough to understand that you fall, too, that it hurts for you, too.  Maybe you are like me.  Maybe you get sick of falling, and sick of struggling back up again.  Maybe you wish to fly.

I do, too.

This body wherein my spirit dwells has been through a few things.  Relearning to walk is an adventure I've undertaken many times over.  The thought of flying with it is enticing.

Flying with my mind is even more so.

Flying with my spirit has proven to be the most difficult.  Believing in someone else is far easier than believing in myself.  Something I work on, by pushing forward however often I stumble or fall.

I will teach myself to fly through the storm.  It may take a little while.

We're getting there.

Adam Scott Campbell

One More Step

A bottle of ointment.  A wound so deep,
Working its magic, awake or asleep.
Be there some way for said wound to heal?
Can soul, uncaring, be retaught to feel,
Or has wretched fate already been sealed?

A musical instrument, perfectly tuned,
Played for an audience, turned deaf all too soon.
Always, it still plays melodious art,
Granting non-hearers a chance to restart
Every broken, beaten-down heart.

Where is the instrument to vanish the wound?
What is this ointment, so carefully spooned?
Why do I feel tis I that hurt skin,
My wounds sinking further and deeper within
A soul enamored and bound tight by sin?

I had a choice, the dark or the light.
Neither held upper hand in the fight.
Depending on me, either held sway.
I'd live in the night and live in the day,
Not knowing that both couldn't stay.

I'd have to choose.  So choice was made.
Never, not ever, has it made move to stay.
Ever twill alter the path tis on.
My firmness, my tenacity gone.
Ever I long for a new, brighter dawn.

One thing left.  One thing.  Just one.
Though a good part wishes but to be done,
Tis as before when I, daring, leapt.
Trait of Stick-To-It, the one thing I kept.
I reach out again.  I take one more step.

Adam Scott Campbell

Return

Held down.
Held back.
Held to.
Held tight.
Held up
In darkness.
Held close
By light.
Always
Held safely.
Always
Held to
Higher,
Stronger,
Mountains
'Round you.
Never
Abandoned.
Never let fall.
Never treated
Poorly.
Never
The wall.
Sometimes,
Often,
Usually pained.
Something
Good, ever,
Will be gained.
Graced comfort,
Light glowing
Within,
Arms and
Hands round,
Gaining
Your win.
What broken
Soul can
You now save?
How will you return
What, to you,
God gave?
What
Sacred soul,
In tank top
And jeans
Is being hated
For being
A different
Human
Being?


Adam Scott Campbell

Meant To Be

I held a treasure, a jewel most rare
In my imperfect, mortal hands.
It slipped, it fell, it shattered
Both itself, and all high plans.

I knew not hope nor despair,
For both gave way to ice.
However sharp life's blade,
I'd numbed Self from its slice.

To you who feel, and know both pain
and joy of burning love,
You know that purest burning
Goes with happiness, hand in glove.

Perhaps you, too, have given up
On having them again,
Though part of Frozen You
Aches for what you had, back then.

What if you found your soul mate,
Whom you never knew was real?
Could you take the pain of thawing
And dare, again, to feel?

Will you do so?  For I'll tell you
True love is very real,
For you, for me, for every soul
Whether able, or unable to feel.

It's not my scars that made it rough,
Vulnerable to be-
Laying my heart out for those around,
And all the world, to see.

Twas only that my darkness was precious,
Sacred, treasured to me.
Being vulnerable tears me up, each time.
I do it repeatedly,

Because sooner or later, someone,
Who looks so deep to see,
Will be the soul mate, breathtaking,
priceless, special, meant for me.

Adam Scott Campbell

Furnace Of Dreams

The world will tell you it's impossible.
They will say that the dream you carry inside you
Cannot be, and will never be accomplished.
They will even give you reasons why you should not
Stretch your wings,
Take a running start,
And fly.
Only birds were meant to fly, after all.  That's why they come with wings.
Humans do not come with wings.
We have learned to make our own.
We are the beneficiaries of human genius.  We can climb into
An airplane, rocket, jet, glider, balloon,
Or squirrel suit and go faster and higher than any bird.
Humans can fly.
You are human.
You can fly, too.
You can have your dream, and you will have it.
You did not come here to planet earth to fail in your dream.
My dream was to get a college degree.
It turned out to be a two-year Associates.
It took me ten years.  I spent some time in an closed institution
In the midst of all of it.
It hurt to be there.
I did it anyway, and got through it.
It hurt to get to my degree.
I did it anyway.
It hurts to live.
You and I both do it anyway,
Every moment
Of every day
Of our lives.
Work toward your dream.
Fight through the fire and the storm,
And get to your dream.
Understand that you have a dream for a reason.
You are the reason.
As you battle toward your dream, other dreams
Will come.
They, too, will require another trek
Through a different fire.
Fight through it.
Crawl. and fall, and work, and laugh,
And cry through it.
You will become the bearer
Of your own dreams.
Dreams fashioned as you kept moving in
The place where all dreams are brought about.
The Furnace of Dreams.

Adam Scott Campbell

Forevermore

You had your goal, your aim, your dream.
You knew you could not lose.
Your path was laid before your feet.
You did not have to choose.

The pain you saw another felt,
You'd never have to feel.
New wounds could never slow you-
You were certain that you'd heal.

No matter what could happen,
You would push on just as strong.
You'd live your dream, and prove your aim.
Your goal could not be wrong.

For goal or dream any higher
Could not be mortal-found.
Or so you thought, until you fell
On hardened, stone-cold ground.

Around, you looked, and viewed, in shock,
A multitude of foes,
Hardened warriors all,
Unconscious, in broken rows.

Victory in sight.  Foes
At your mercy, all.
When from deep inside you
There came a strange, new clarion call.

"Let rest what rests," said Call did say
"Leave these who always stayed.
"A chance to rise above them...
"This, the chance for which you've prayed."

Then new sight, fresh understanding
Into your mind did glow.
This was the time to leave old habits.
To let each last one go.

To set your sight upon the heights
'Pon which you're meant to stand.
Push onward and press upward,
Just like you've longed and planned.

Last year, last month, last hour,
You left them each behind.
With unwavering greatness
You now are firmly aligned.

Tis you, O battler, to whom I speak,
You who, these words, now read.
You do now, and you will,
Forevermore succeed.

Adam Scott Campbell

Fire And Storm

I entered the fire and could have quit-
Could have turned, and walked away,
Weeping each step for passed pain.
I chose, instead, to stay.
I stayed, and the flames went high
Far taller than little me.
So high and so bright, all around,
That soon I could not see.

I knew nothing but heat and
Pain, too soon to ring me round.
But stationary I was not.
I yet moved on blackened ground.
Recalled I much triumph,
Much joy as I had pushed through
Struggles of storm and tempest.
For in the past I'd chosen to.

But burning in this trial,
Different than nature's ire,
I beheld the choices
Of both honest man and liar.
Each I saw inside me,
The lie that I loathed life,
The lie that each fault was mine-
That I had caused all strife

The lie that I was worth naught,
The lie that I could not do
Anything and everything
I wanted and was meant to.
But honesty, too, spoke
And said that I'd endured,
While things both dark and evil,
Inside and out, had stirred.

That I had tried, and tried again,
That I was yet still trying,
While my heart and even soul
Could not cease their crying.
Between both ends I found myself
And, puzzled at my state,
Wondered how I ever functioned
With so much on my plate.

Wisdom's dawn approaching,
I find my central door.
I open it, and view within:
The things I laid in store.
Many are good and helpful
A few even divine.
But many, from the darkness,
I also could claim as mine.

Seeing I want them not,
Knowing I'm worth more,
I gather up the darkness.
I toss it out my door.
A particle of wisdom, then,
Into my mind did come
The fire and storm, together,
Enable me to reach my sum.

Bittersweet Aid: A Deadly Endeavor, Part 2

        "Let it go..." the lady whispers. "Let it out!"
        Her arms wrap round my middle from behind.  Twas good sport at our last meeting.  The possibility of death at the hands of beauty was, put simply, both pleasure and honor.  Now heart-pangs have engendered a more candid reckoning of inner struggles.  Again we meet.  Again I have put forth no effort to protect myself, for despondency holds my heart captive as no woman ever could.  I have come with half a hope that she would end my suffering.  Instead, this.
        "Lady," I say, my voice thick. "This I will not unload upon thee.  Tis not thy work.  Thou art no beast of burden, but an angel at war with thine own inner light.  I have done naught but evil concerning thee and thy kind.  Separate thyself from me."
        Her arms grow tighter.  "Never, dear poet-warrior."  A break I hear in her voice.
        No!  May sword and arrow pierce me through, no angel should shed tear!
        "Lady!  Please do not weep!"
        I hear her sniffle.  "What else may I do, dear one?" she asks, further tears evident in her speech.  "Tis a broken heart and beaten spirit I embrace.  How do I heal them of what has been done?  How do I help one who has so little love for himself?"
        I am wretched and shattered and burnt-up within.  It hurts to have a heart.  It hurts worse to have it awaken after attempted freezing.  Would that an entire battered existence could be erased.
        "A tendril of thy thought in the air I catch, O Poet," She says in hushed voice.  "This thy wish, to be undone?"
        "True, lady.  Tis but sweetened agony I am given for to taste.  What remedy have thou?  Wilt thou use razor steel to give me blessed, eternal relief?"
        "O Nay, precious soul!" she cries out, fully weeping now. "Live!  Live for the sake of all you can help!  I need thee here!  So many need thee here!"
        "I stay for thee alone, lady."
        "Have a care, sir.  Grief alone will such motive bring thee.  Broaden thy perspective.  So many hurt, much like unto thee.  Empathy mayhap can bring healing as naught else.  For their sake and for thine, shoulder their grief with them and find release from this, thy pain."
        I find no answer.  A long moment passes.  The words I have long dreaded, she then speaks.  Others of God's precious daughters have spoken the same in times past.  The blade twists deeper with each new use of the words.
        "I do thee no good to be here."
        She removes her arms from around me.  I turn.  Already she has begun the trek to her waiting mare.  At times, grace enables a poet to speak words of wonder.  At others, grace disables my ability to communicate at all.  Tis the latter I suffer now.
        Fare thee safely, lady.
-        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -      

        The young man sits quiet at the travel crossroads.  A tattered shirt, threadbare shorts, holey shoes, and a worn cap on his head are all he has with him.  Not even a knapsack for the barest of necessities.  His clothing says much.  The look on his face says all.  He has lost everything.                         Carriages pass him by, seemingly oblivious to his want.  I have walked far, travelling without aid of carriage.  The use of limb to make haste is more helpful than travelling in ease.  It helps to quiet the mind, somewhat.  Perhaps the lady is right.  Perhaps giving aid to another will help me, in turn.
        "Have you food to eat?" I ask him.
        He shakes his head, looking dazed.  I take my own knapsack off my shoulders, and pull at the leather drawstring straps to open it.
        "I have hope that you are not averse to cold victuals."  I unload the pack, setting out cold meat, a half-loaf of bread, some good cheese, and a flagon of cordial.  He looks, mouth parted in astonishment, at what I have laid before him.  Then looking teary up at me, he moves his lips in an effort to speak.  He finally croaks out,
        "Thank you."
        A mere four days since the lady and I parted and my pain has already begun to subside.  She had been right.
        She is always right.

Adam Scott Campbell

Rise

The warrior trips, falls on his face.
A nation stops its noise.
A tragedy is made possible,
More bitter than was Troy's.
For if this warrior, so battered,
Chooses not to rise,
Nation will fight nation,
For he made no further tries.
It's been three years plus thirty
Since I was given birth.
I have struggled all throughout
To find my own true worth.
It's easy to see beauty
In those who round me stand.
It's been near impossible at times
To see the good God, in me, planned.
The warrior who has fallen,
Breathing hard and low,
Shakes his head wearily.
He does not want to go.
A warrior wanting peace, instead
Of conflict, grief, and death,
Fights to keep eyes open
And to maintain his own life breath.
All round the warrior,
Those he does not see
Fight for him and fight against him,
To make him slave or set him free.
While the battle's fought,
Without and within,
The Hand That Wrote All
Gives the earth another spin
These forces, each in action,
Powerful that they are,
Will not, cannot stop the warrior
From choosing to go far.
Warrior's will to endure
Carries him every stumble.
Storm and tempest powerless,
Though elements may rumble.
Three plus thirty-thousand
Long, hard years of pain...
Warrior, richer than any,
Learns heartache brings great gain.
You who read these words, realize
Who and what you are:
God's own son or daughter,
Worth more than endless stars.
Nothing can, or will, force you
To halt, or pause, or quit.
You are looking for a miracle.
This is it.
Your gold is in the fire.
True love's in the storm.
Frozen, you hate to move
But it's how you will get warm.
So many fight for you.
Ponder why it is they fight.
This world grows ever darker.
Please, come to the light.

Adam Scott Campbell

Darkness And Gold

Does the falling hurt?  Can you, after, stand?
All the pain locked inside the warrior You
Cannot force you to choose what to do.
It is a deadly, even fatal, path that's planned.
None say they endure, as you, what you go through.

Maybe they admire you for your fires, too.

Every laugh and jest against
Seem pure cruelty dispensed.
No gold hidden 'side your heart
Dare you share, lest any beware
The very real darkness kept inside.

Darkness in them.  Darkness in you.

Shrouded in that darkness, a treasure untold.
None could resist taking your gold
Could this gold choose to move
Outside the heart that is its hold,
Pained for each blast of loving cold.

How much can you bear to go through?

Repeat action taken so many times.
Lay your heart out.  At the world's mercy,
You do what so few can ever do.
Vulnerable by choice.  Nothing hid.
Of secrets you are completely through.

Do you know the full worth of you?

Has no one told you that you are strong?
Without guarantees you still push on,
Hoping and wanting the gold at the end.
You hear that you have treasure now.
Can it be?  Will you, hope, allow?

Treasure in the dark, O Warrior You.

Adam Scott Campbell

Try, Again

It hurts to feel, so much you cry,

Telling self you’d rather die,

Knowing not what it is you say.

One bled and died yesterday

To keep you going, anyway.

To hurt, you think, you’d rather not,

But in your hurt you find self caught.

With every ounce of heart-life gave,

You suppose you’ll somehow save

That same, spoon-fed life you gave.

In midst of hurt, you search high and low,

For sanctuary to which you’ll go.

All the while, pained and alone,

Seeds of self-hatred sown

Of which you have hardly known.

Your embattled, wound-spattered heart

Must find some miraculous restart.

Spiritually-trained personnel

Stand ready to walk with you through your hell

Into which, so long past, you fell.

What do you say? What will you do?

Move through fire with friends to help you?

Choose to turn to One who bled?

Learn and relearn words He’s said?

Feast on heart-manna you’re meant to be fed?

Asks one whose whole soul is scarred,

Whose heart, also, is battered and marred.

Like a broken, beaten up fool, again

I’ll ask if you’ll try, try, try it again.

Will you not try feeling, again?

Adam Scott Campbell

Dream-Ache

In one hand, a beautiful golden pen.
In the other, a heart ne'er able to dry.
Only time knows exactly when
Said heart will cease to try.

In one pen, an ink to make one free.
In one heart, the blood to gain sight.
Only One Omniscient sees
How two learned, as one, to fight.

In one drop of ink carefully used,
Perhaps one warrior saved,
Sparing writer the death
For which one drop of blood he gave.

By one particle of a mind at peace
Writer writes raw, written word
Wishing for white, soothing fleece
Of which he's only heard.

Reclining on this rocky shore,
Sea foam all around,
Shivering... pained... thoughts stored,
Languishing on the ground.

Sea foam laps at shoulders.
Now neck, now chin not dry.
Writer dreams as he gets colder,
Knowing not the Why.

Floating now in salted,
Bluest water out to sea,
Writer-warrior does not feel
Arms bearing him free.

Laid in wheeled chariot,
Pushed to carriage side,
He knows not at all
Where his body lies.

In cold, watery grave?
In a bed of a kindly inn?
Floating o'er the wave?
Or a shrieking carriage, within?

Wither shall carriage bear him?
Upon which isle shall he land?
When he finds wave does not hold him,
Will he have the strength to stand?

Ache to be free, pained to be done,
Wanting and wishing the battle won,
Warrior-writer has no path
To find a warming sun.

Writer must needs write it:
The happenings of his war.
Warrior must needs fight it
However oft he is torn.

Swim the oceans, wield the sword
However long war lasts.
Writer-warrior will write and fight
Until the pain is past.

"His vitals are all stable.
I think he will be fine.
Make sure you check every fifteen.
No near-deaths, this time..."

Adam Scott Campbell

Our Dream

You have a dream.

I have a dream.

Each person who can think has a dream.  

Or two. Or five.  Or a dozen.  I'm going 

To do something I haven't done on this 

Blog before.  I am going to share my dream.

When I'm done, I will invite you to respond 

To this blog post and share your own dream 

Or dreams. Your response will not be posted 

Until you give me the OK to share it.  In 

Advance, thank you for your response.

I have a dream wherein the things I say, and 

the things I write, touch the lives of un-

Counted people the world over, one by one

By one by one.  I have a dream wherein my

Words only do good.  By "good," I mean 

They improve the thoughts, and thereby the 

Reality of children of God everywhere.  To

Clarify, I view each person as a literal child 

Of God, so this dream I share includes you, 

Each person you know, and every person you 

Don't.  I have a dream wherein I can share 

my story and know that there are so many 

Who identify with it that I don't number them.

Part of my dream is the kindness that prevails
In the actions of God's children that I want
To have a hand in bringing about.  Another
Part is that few people, very few if any, say
Anything to me about it.  I can see the light,
The happiness in their eyes, and that is enough.

My dream is a happy dream.  I believe in it,
And hope for it, and long for it despite the
Many obstacles that stand in the way.  
Obstacles are just things that need to be
Climbed over, gotten past, and pushed through.
You and I do that every time we take a breath.

What is your dream?  Why do you have it?
Where does it come from?  I'm eager to hear.

Adam

Fortunate

If you had just found out that the
Most heartfelt piece of your creative genius
Had been submitted successfully to
The most powerful publisher in the world,
And had been accepted out of thousands
Of submissions to be placed as the
Front page of their website, to be seen
By thousands and thousands and
Thousands of viewers, what would you
Think?  Say?  Do?  How would you act?
How would you behave if viewers the
World over sent in IM, text, call, email in
Droves praising you and your creation?
What if it gave the publisher the ability
To hire you/ pay you royalties/ bring
You fame and fortune for the rest of your
Life?  What if you never had to buy any-
Thing ever again, because others
Would fall over each other to buy what
You wanted for you?  What would you
Think if, because of what you created,
You were loved and adored by all, and
Helped by all, and protected and cared
For and provided for by all?  What would
You think if you then looked out your
Castle window and saw a homeless man,
Begging on the corner, unshaven, un-
Washed, not cared for, not loved, who
Happens to glance up to your window
To see you watching him?  What if he was
Blind?  What if he was missing an arm,
Or a leg, or both legs, or both arms?
What if he had children who didn't love
Him?  What if you didn't know any of
This? What if you did?  What if you could
Trade places with him?  Would you
Do so, for an hour? Two hours? Three?
Would you trade your entire life for his,
To give him your shelter, your food, your
Clothes, your fortune and fame and
Countless blessings from Almighty God,
And count yourself fortunate to be able
To help another in such a simple, pro-
Found way?  How would you feel, if you
Laid this trade before him, and he smiled
And thanked you, then told you no?
Could you take what you offered him,
Cast it aside, sit down next to him on
The corner of I-25 and Broadway, and
Be his begging friend for the rest of
Your life?  Go where he goes, live as
He lives, eat what he eats, sleep like he
Does, and consider yourself fortunate
To know someone with a heart of gold?
What happens the next time you see
Someone hurting?  Will you be aware
Of the feeling in the air, enough that
You can reach out and save an embattled
Life who stands on the edge of quitting?
There are 7+ billion people living on
This miraculous earth we live on.
Someone can use your help.
Eyes open.

Adam Scott Campbell