music n' such

a Tanka style poem

spitting, the tide swells.
white caps slap the writhing wind.
beneath, a gentle
flow soothes flourishing color.
breaking. breathing. born again.

that which grips

it wears jeans and a sweatshirt,

to accommodate for the changing weather.

it reads on the weekends,

always checking its watch – reading and rechecking.

it sits and waits patiently,

like a polite customer, uncomplaining and unwavering.

it notices the first limp in step,

and circles round to replace it like an old friend.

it nuzzles into the space

my confidence left vacant.

it moves when I move

and breathes when I leave.

it settles behind my eyelids,

haunting me every time I blink.

but not

a window
is a wall
to air

but not

to light

I can't say I didn't warn you...

So I was stumbling on stumbleupon.com and this picture came up (stumble knows me so well). This picture is really inspiring if you think about it. No matter how stupid you may end up looking (or amazing, you're interpretation), always go for the gold (and yes, pun definitely intended).

So go for it, Mr. Gold Digging Gorilla!

(see blog description if utterly lost)

Let Your Mercy Fall

So...a few weeks ago I was just messing around on guitar (often I record it in the background, just in case I do something cool I want to remember in the future) and this sort of blah-ed out. It's more of an impromptu prayer with guitar...therefore its really rough and you can tell I'm making stuff up as I go...but nevertheless I thought I'd share it, because it turned out meaning a lot to me. (I ended up writing the lyrics out after I recorded the song..kind of backwards..but i guess it works).




so many times
to you I call
and I fall
short of what i'm meant to be

lord let your mercy fall
all around me
so I can see

What I really do when I go to "work"...

Yep, I took this while going for a scooter ride around a beautiful neighborhood in the hills of Santa Margarita at sunset. The best part is that I get paid for this everyday.
My job > your job.
El fin. :)

Come Thou Fount

My good friend Lyn is getting married in a few weeks and she asked if I would play a hymn during the communion part of the ceremony. After discussing it, she decided on "Come Thou Fount." So over the past few weeks I've been practicing it here and there in preparation to make sure I had it "musically" down. But the funny thing is that when you play a song over and over again, the words really sink in and work something within you. Thus, it has recently occurred to me that God has been using this song to bless me over the past several weeks without me even knowing it...which is pretty awesome I think. So...thank you Lyn for getting married and having me play this song at your wedding...because it truly has been a blessing in disguise (even if that disguise is cloaked in a really obvious hymn blanket...haha)

Come Thou fount of every blessing
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace
Streams of mercy never ceasing
Call for songs of loudest praise
Teach me some melodious sonnet
Sung by flaming tongues above
Praise the mount I'm fixed upon it
Mount of Thy unchanging love

Here I raise my Ebenezer
Hither by Thy help I come
And I hope by Thy good pleasure
Safely to arrive at home
Jesus sought me when a stranger
Wondering from the fold of God
He, to rescue me from danger
Interposed His precious blood

O to grace how great a debtor daily I'm constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to Thee
Prone to wander Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I love
Here's my heart Lord, take and seal it, seal it for Thy courts above

The Hidden Meaning

I think I may be too obsessed with finding the hidden meaning in things. What I'm not sure of, though, is why. Is it because I enjoy the process of delving into deeper truths and discovering those secret gems only found by transcending above what is easily comprehendable? Or is it because I desperately hope there is a hidden meaning because I'm not satisfied or don't want to accept the face value meaning?

i love this kid

Not My Own

New song up on http://www.reverbnation.com/krystalpark.


Not My Own

the story of my skin
stretches longer than
the care that lies within
the hand that vast began

its not my own

I’m sitting in it now,
pores expose my flaws
threads of grace somehow
interlace I’m caught in a love

that’s not my own

we are not a slave to fear
oh we cry abba abba abba father
its not my own
creation groans
you’ve brought us home

the story of my skin
is not my own

wilting

the friction of thoughts
kindle defeat.
creating heat.
destroying
me.

Straightforward Thoughts Are Overrated

I just realized something. All the lyrics I write that I end up liking are the ones that really make no immediate sense. That used to frustrate me because I thought "good songs" had lyrics in which people could connect and understand what was going inside my head. However...this had led to me writing countless lyrics over the years that I thought were "clear" and thus "right," which was true...but they sounded like the cheesiest crap I'd ever heard...which is why I don't like most of the stuff I've written.

But I finally get it. I can't write straightforward lyrics, because I don't have straightforward thoughts. And I'm ok with that. More so, I'm ok with other people not being ok with that. Part of what I've struggled with in songwriting (and life in general I guess) is the perception of what others will see of me. The more I've been able to let go of that, the more I've really felt my work reflect who I am. I still don't like most of it, but I'm starting to..bit by bit.

Instead of this straightforward message, I think my lyrics hover around ideas and emotions to situations sometimes tangible and sometimes not...and are really there to provoke questions rather than really answer them...or something.

So, sorry in advance for any confusion or frustration. Deal with it ;)

I want a banjo

The end.

Indigo Shells

A doorknob unravels,
conscious of lingering shelter.

Rattling and rusted
panels quiver from solemn sighs.

Metal velvet screeches its protest against
careless architecture. Hitchhiking across,

translatable astrology imparts stories
from freckles crumpled in

indigo shells
smuggled and swelling into a dusty radiance

at gundown.
Lay your sun down.

Twenty One

Bright eyes playfully duel existence as the bouquet
of faces coo thoughtfully over the shoulder of 1988.

Giggles. Laughter. A joyful holler.
Tick tock.

Morning dew slumps in the early afternoon,
dripping glistening thoughts into the ground

upon which tiny feet tromp.
Tick…tick…tick tocks the conductor’s

tongue. Everything is wrong. Surreptitious.
A mother’s smile. A proud father’s nod.

The haze reveals our rib cracking hearts
from delicate memories no longer attached.

The Accuser

**revision/different poem? I don't know

Oh one who sucks arid
the marrow of freedom out of
bones bought with the Blood.
Tell me, tell me.

The liar with the lair
in the deep of my soul.
Thieving and resurrecting.
Tell me, tell me.

Dripping with contempt
he is cloaked comfort.
Soothing syllables slump around shoulders
Tell me, tell me.

Ripples in self reflections
of this river I see.
Flowing, it rushes over
Tell me, tell me.

I know, I know
oh how I deserve
I know, I know
oh I’m not free, how can I be

Accuser of the Brethren
soft whispers splinter between
my folded faults
-- beauty’s hiding place.
I willingly embrace
the lion in the cave, the cave, the cave
oh and the desert,
soul thirsty,
the dry desert
of my own deception.
Tell me, tell me,
I will believe.

The Accuser of the Brethren

** In response to Aaron Porter's sermon I listened to this morning


The Accuser of the Brethren,
-- the liar with the lair
in the deep of my soul --
sucks arid the marrow of freedom
out of bones bought with
the Blood.

Thieving and resurrecting
my throbbing insecurities,
he subtly pulses them into reason.

The heavy battle within
slowly tumbles
and roars.

The clashing swells
and surrounds me
too fast, too thick
until I cannot see,
ache to feel,
will not hear
Him,

Because the Accuser has coated each strike
with the dripping contempt
of what my flesh knows I deserve
and so I believe
and so I am deceived
into the darkness
-- the eternal shadow that only grows
and never fades.

Unaware
I have stopped breathing,
my body cedes
to the unconscious assails
of nightmares and reality
that lock hands and
compose commands
I crumble to,
because my brittle frame
of mind has been depleted
of the Creator’s nutrients.

And so I have become
soul thirsty
in a dry desert of my own
deceptions.

To My Dear Friend

While my hair was still a jungle
overgrown with curly Qs of mischief,
my dimples were mere afterthoughts
sprinkled lightly in the summer sun.
I sat there squished,
and frantically licking my popsicle
before the thieving sun.
You sat beside me, eating yours.
You played with your toes and dripped grape
onto mine.
Each of us holding on with tiny fingers
to our quickly melting innocence.

At seven I floated on an elephant
riding away through the clouds.
And you on the dragon,
smoke billowing into mist.
Grass itching our backs you mumbled your six-year-old love.
I scratched my tickled elbow and sailed away
through the drifting sea on my fluffy pirate ship.

At thirteen I stopped soaring,
and landed on the heavy ground.
I learned to walk with lead in my feet
and always in my hands.
The world engulfed us,
two flightless birds dissolving into the infinite eye.

At nineteen we met each other
for the first time.
Youthful giggles replaced by seasoned wisdom.
Oh, but your boyish grin never walked away
and neither did our childhood.
What to do with nostalgia?
Oh, how it scolds us still.

The campfire burned to embers
and our fathers embraced as brothers
that day. Years passed
like before, bookmarked for another.
But life’s fists fell hard
across our youthful dreams,
and stole you from us.
But I still have your boyish grin in my pocket
and years of adventure skinned upon my knees.
When you come down to visit,
look for me in the clouds
searching for lost treasure,
searching for you.