Here, I am (original song)

original song by Stephanie T. Villeda. inspired by God's Unconditional Love. 


Verse 1
I don't even know where to start
Seems that everyone has broken my heart
I Try to discern Your Voice from theirs
Tell me, do You really hear my prayers?


CHORUS:
Here, I am, calling out to You
Tell me, God, do You hear me too?
Do You love me, like they tell me You do?
Show me, Show me, I want to know You.


Verse 2
I don't even know what to say
seems that everytime I try to pray
my heart is so consumed with
the worries of the day 
please, take the pain away


Yet, in You, I trust always


CHORUS:
Here, I am, calling out to You
Tell me, God, do You hear me too?
Do You love me, like they tell me You do?
Show me, Show me, I want to know You.


Bridge
I close my eyes, Expose my heart, Here I am, Before You (4x)
And I feel Your Love, knocking deep inside my heart
And I know You're here, everything points straight to You
And I know You're real, deserving of every praise,
but I steady my voice as I hear You say...


CHORUS:
Here, I am, calling out for you
Tell me, Son, do you want Me too?
Do you love Me? 'Cause I've always loved you.
Show Me, Show Me, I want to know... you.

Just Words

Words have the power to affect a life in ways undescribable.
Words have the power to break a heart further, or heal it entirely.

I've always wanted that type of love that makes me want to boldy speak
I LOVE YOU
from the top of a mountain,
because the True Love that I want is the
crazy,
consuming,
can't-live-without-each-other

type of Love.

And I have found all the Love I could ever be consumed with in Your Word.

I can't live without You
and even when I can't live anymore,
I will still have You.

How amazing is it to know that Your Word

outlasts any words that could leave my lips

or touch my heart.

Your Word has shown me how to be,
how to forgive,
and most importantly how to love.

You always know the right thing to say to me when I feel broken,
when I feel alone, when I feel low and unworthy...

After all my nights of wading in the silence

your words are the only ones that have striked me like a lightning bolt,

and that have changed my sight from darkness to light, showing me love in all its potentiality, in all its power.

And to You, there are just so many words gushing from my heart,
but I just need You to understand how much you've made the following two words mean to me:
Thank You.

Thank You for every thing;
Thank You for every day,
Thank You for every one,
Thank You for every word,

Thank You for every moment

that has led me back to you,
and that has
let me breathe in Your Love
just a little bit more,

and yet,
I know that
no words
will ever be

enough.

A Day in the Life of a Journalist

January 8, 2010

You see this world for what it really is
At last you see the shine and the grime the dumpsters and the buildings the gambling and the bidding of young executives and of prostitutes that have been in the business for too long You see the endless trash the cars whether they speed or crash the pedestrians as they walk even if they are doing it all wrong speeding and stopping halting and flaunting but they never do it right Next thing you hear are the sounds of the night the repetitive drawls of bus engines starting and breaking down the numerous shouts of drunk teens as they lose function of their motor skills the subtle quick inhalations of the smoker late for a meeting in town and the whispered prayers of the homeless as they hope to endure the winter chills
You read the headlines stories all just stories You read faces more stories to be told You read the nutritional information on the side of some menu there is no story there There are stories on the street but all you do is walk on
This morning I saw an accident Or the remains of the accident An ambulance in all its glory and the streets shouting a story There was Blood yet the doors to the vehicle were shut and I could not get Lady Gaga’s song out of my head but something inside knew the story before me would go on unsaid
You are now passing an electronics store with windows that run for miles and each television you can see has Tiger Woods and the list of his whores that runs for miles You see some people stop and stare and comment and shake their heads disapprovingly and you walk on that story should have been left unsaid
About one o’clock now your stomach grumbles and you hunger for a satisfying bite No need to fight the urge you want a burger a cheeseburger or maybe you feel wild and you want a double cheeseburger to surge in you and last until dinner later that night You know not to indulge though because the nutritional value of such a thing would be horrendous and you would then have to surrender to a gym membership Besides if you had that burger the homeless would still go hungry
You leave temptation and you are now on 10th An elderly woman is crossing the street and you feel like you should help and as you proceed you notice your shoe is untied and you let the moment of putting others first pass you by O why O why was your shoe untied at that exact moment in time She walked on leaving you behind and you are bent down tying and untying and retying and just tying away all your precious time
Now you walk on across the city to the riverside You pass by streets of stores just stores merchandise that are pointless and useless like a Snuggie as seen on t v or merchandise that are useful but unexplainably expensive like a pair of gloves or earmuffs You wonder whether you should buy some because of the winter chills you must endure It’s a test of endurance we all must face Yet you walk on
You pass by payphones and remember that talk you had with your grandfather when he was telling you about how in his day there were no such things as telephones so you had to make personal house calls if any story was to be told You pass by an empty shopping cart tied to a hydrant You pass by a pair of sneakers hanging from the telephone wires You pass by a bar and suddenly the street lights go on
From the street you can hear the roar of the soccer game as it plays on the flat screen t v inside the bar You can hear the grunts of disgruntled men who are sipping away their sorrows You can almost feel the pinches that the waitresses are receiving as they pass by the disgruntled men You see that one of those men happen to be a co-worker but you walk on because there is no story to share between you and him But a bar fight breaks loose and you are inclined to stay and see if there is a story
The chills the skills the town this place of no ups only downs this bar the lights shine eerily on the car you see you hear you feel the first punch the crack of the first jaw and the wobble in your knees This story might be one to please your boss But you walk on

You refuse to be a prostitute

a sad story

Words of A Minor

December 27, 2009

Have you ever read something so utterly amazing that it leaves you with a sense of inadequacy? I feel as though I do, more than I should, especially since I should be writing amazing essays; I should be coming up with these grand questions concerning human life and express them so eloquently and so magically that whomever were to read them would end up in a drawl of the mouth and in a speechless breath.

I read something today that made me feel unworthy of this blank page, at which I dabble my fingers furiously against the keyboard in order to make any sense out of the once infinite emptiness susceptible to infinite possibilities. After reading a young lady’s words and thoughts, as they were filled with fervent passion and intense intimate concerns, I was inspired to do just the same. I thought to myself, How can I call myself a writer, when her words, as seven years my minor, exist?

These moments of doubt spear my heart, spear my hopes and dreams—all dramatics aside—and I feel as though I have been challenged, not by her writer but by my writer. I have been challenged to think thoughts that I have never thought possible; I have been challenged to displace any notion from the immensities of my brain onto the availability of a page—yet, to do so would require me to reconsider my notions.

I have said that I have so many things to say, and that all a writer could ever ask for is for someone to read them, and to care about them, and to ponder over them as they have been placed out into the world. Yes, I have said that. But what happens when I read the works of another? I should feel inspired. I should be saying to myself, Jeez, look at that; Now that is true artistry of words. I want to share in that ease of language. However, as I sit here in my chair, I am bombarded with negative instances and find myself doubting my abilities, How can I ever write? How can I face this page knowing that there is better art to be made than my own?

I have always been self-conscious. I have never truly had a good sense of self-esteem, let alone a high self-esteem. I was an obese child, and adolescence never was kind to fatties. I remember in sixth grade that I had the biggest crush on this once cute boy—although now he is an insignificant fish-faced man (haha!)—and on this very hot summer day, I was so inclined as to place my long hair into a ponytail, and as I did, he passed by me and gave me the dirtiest look, laughed at me, and said matter-of-factly that I looked so ugly. Now, I know I am not “ugly” as I do take care of myself, but at the age of eleven, words like that can dismantle any young girls’ ambitions, and for the rest of that summer, I always had my hair down, trying to cover my ugliness.

Sometimes, my eleven-year-old self comes back to life and finds a home in my aging soul. Sometimes, I feel “fat”—in the sense where I am useless, worthless; that nothing I am, nothing I say, nothing I do, can ever contribute to this beautiful universe. But that is only Sometimes. One day, however, I know that with my own children, I never want them to undergo any hints of inadequacy. I want them to strive forward, to embellish their dreams and aspirations, to climb up and over any obstacle they are presented with, and to know that they are never alone—for the love of God, parents, and family, is always helping them along the way.

I want them to find the power of their words; to know that what they have to say is most definitely worth saying. I want them to crave an empty page, or an empty science project board, or an empty diorama box, because in that emptiness the echoes of their thoughts can be heard and the manifestation of true art—as it applies to individual sense of worth—can come alive. I want them to realize what has taken me years of struggling and hurt and pain: you are great just the way you are

As I sit here, letting these notions slip from my mind through my fingertips, making a harsh tapping sound with every press against the keyboard, I realize that my harsh tapping sounds are my melody of thoughts. My words may be choppy, my words may flow like beautiful streams, my words may light up a thousand smiles, my words may furrow ten thousand brows. I write furiously, I write with passion. I write quickly and without ease and without stop until the very end of my last period on the page. And that is okay. I may have questions that will never be answered and I may have answers that may never want to be heard. I am doing this for me, I am striving to forget who I was, and to find who it is that I am and who I want to be. I can face this now full page, and call myself a writer.

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First Impressions

December 3, 2009

I realize that I have a lot to say and that I want someone, anyone out there in the world, to listen; to listen and to really think that I do have something to say and that I should have taken the time to write this down. I don’t know if I’ll ever make a difference in the world or if my words will ever reach anyone in any way, and I say reach as in literally, extending out a hand through these words and allowing them to grab on and find any sort of solace in the seemingly solitude state of society. But the truth is, you are not alone. I care. And I’m hoping You care, too. Every day I go about my daily routines and sometimes I think that it would be best if I were just alone, or if I was never forced to interact with strangers that I don’t necessarily care about, but to be honest, after any sort of interaction, I end up with a smile on my face. I have these amazing days just knowing that I spoke to people, and I mean really spoke to them; I got to share these intimate concerns or bare my soul in a way that most people are afraid of doing. And the best part of my day is when I bare my soul in Prayer. I can say anything I want, knowing that the only entity that can judge me is my Glorious God. In prayers, I can cry in comfort and am consoled just knowing that someone out there is indeed caring, and is definitely listening. Sometimes, that’s all we need. All we need is someone to listen.

So, I want to remember these certain things about the day I moved into college. I was so excited to finally meet my roommate, the beautiful Mexican drama major at Tisch who was Catholic and liked musicals and I thought we were going to be best friends. I was so excited to finally see the suite, which I thought was to be huge and I would have a walk-in closet and I would be able to fit all my little things in this big room and I would be able to have a fabulous view of the city, a panorama if you will, where I would sit daily and write these glorious poems, or stories, or songs, and be completely inspired by all the eccentric experiences that were sure to come from living on my own. So, I’ve had these eccentric experiences, but not exactly how I planned them to be. I never became best friends with the Mexican, because to be honest, I am jealous of her and how pretty she is and how all the hot guys in the city come up to her randomly and take her out on these super expensive dates because it turns out that they are young sugar-daddy’s, and of how thin she is and can look good in anything, and of how my boyfriend, who is struggling with being a good Christian because he is a lustful soul, stares at her and has these sexual thoughts about her, and so that will never work out; I cannot ever be best friends with her, but I do like her. It’s a complicated relationship, only she doesn’t know it.

The suite is actually quite small and I had to get those amazing closet hangers that can fit 5 things on one hanger and this is how I manage to fit all my clothes into the 3 feet width of the closet, and the view from our window is of a Chinese restaurant called “Yummy house” (I’ve never been there because like most Chinese restaurants the name is probably just a lure to get you to go in but you end up with some sort of disease from eating the chicken that is really a cat they trapped in the alley) and a movie theater and if you lean as close to the glass of the window and take a look at the left you can see a semi-nice-looking building that has blue lights at night, but all this doesn’t really inspire me and so I haven’t had much time to write my heart out, as I used to do back home in my tiny Queens apartment while living with my parents.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, living in the city sometimes makes me feel like I’m the hot child they were talking about in that song, but I did expect more. I guess I expected the wrong things, or at least I definitely expected the things that would be the hardest to find in a city that is leaking of sin (or just of things that are too wild for my simple life, if you want to take it another way). I wanted to find people that would stimulate my faith, strengthen my walk with God, and I wanted to find that in every person I met. I’ve never been so committed to my faith before this time, but now, I have this duty in me that strives to reach out to people, but it’s hard to get them to listen sometimes, most of the time. I definitely did not want to have a suitemate who constantly brings over her boyfriend and they have sex on the couch thinking that the rest of us don’t know what’s going on and he cums on the blanket that was covering the dirty old couch, but now it’s dirtier than before. I did expect to have my boyfriend come over a lot and we are not like them so it’s perfectly fine, although I’m sure that isn’t helping my boyfriends’ lustful struggle and it doesn’t help my jealousy issues, and it also doesn’t help our struggle to be abstinent, but we’ve learned to refrain from being in my actual room, so that the physical wall between us serves as the best chastity belt, although I wouldn’t mind wearing one myself and making him wear one too; What ever happened to those?

I live in the best area though, because everything I ever want or need is literally only 1 to 6 blocks away, and if I wanted to be adventurous and venture out into the unknown jungle that is the city, I could just take the subway and reach any destination I so desire. There’s a FedEx drop off station 10 feet away and there’s like three supermarkets one block away and there’s a million places to eat, my favorite one is the 1$ pizza place on St. Marks. But I do miss the nature, because everything is just stores stores stores and I do wish there was a nice park nearer than Central Park, which is just an oasis of nature out of place in the big city, if you really think about it.

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