We’re human. We’re real. We’re not a bunch of two dimensional characters found between the pages of a book. We are so much more than the plot of somebody’s story. We are our own story. Flesh and bones, Muscles and breath. We’re real. So very, painfully real.
Your worth is not measured by how much money you have in the bank or the size of your house. Or whether you can sit on your couch without pushing a weeks worth of clothes onto the floor; right on top of that fort built out of blocks.
Paint me a new day,
Oh Artist of my soul.
Create in me a new heart,
As your picture is made whole.
I love you banana split you must know, but once I take this last bite you’ve gotta go. I already stole the cherry- plucked it from the top. And those luscious sweet strawberries were the cream of the crop. I relished in your creamy dreams, even while I mourned the loss. They forgot the nuts and I’m split. […]
The day she danced
The music played
The children laughed
The willows swayed.
And then there was the quiet
And I was left with me.
Her ruin was not written, Her story not yet told.
When I grow up, I’m going to save the world.