Stop. Breathe. Remember God's Simplicity...

Christmas melodies singing Santa’s sleigh bells ringing. Holiday lights beaming So it must be Christmas. To me, Santa is real, He hasn’t lost his appeal. He knows how to make me feel Like the season is Christmas. I can smell the joys In the cookies and the toys Opened by girls and boys On the morning of Christmas And even though it’s raining, (and the shopping can be draining), my spirit isn’t waning Because it’s Christmas.

Poor little bird, why do you cry? Did your little friend set off and fly? Don't cry all alone in the tree, I'll tell you something to you from me. I too had an angel, on Earth a  friend, and what so quickly began, had a sudden end. Although optimism is something I always lack, Know, that while seasons change, they always change back. Yes, she too had no choice, but to set off and fly, but the spirit is sacred and can never die.

"Fear" is  continually displayed in dangerous calligraphy on my bedroom walls. It was once on the window where condemners could read, on my ceiling as a greeting when I woke and last thing I saw before I spiraled to nightmares of isolation. I stared at it etched on my door, and I was obligated to stare it down while I fumbled for my keys. It was written on the blinds, on my body.  on my homework, on the foreheads of friends and family,  on my tuition, my bank account, my work. Fear is now only  present when I'm alone. Smeared across my walls in sharp,dark, cacophonous font. With this word sky-scraper tall, I feel defeated.

Wind is conversing with Trees They aren't so secretive , but no one ever listens .

   I am not vain nor self-concious.I love my eyes. I'm told I have beautiful eyes.I like that my smile looks genuinely joyful. I don't mind my hips. I love shaking them left to right,with my Ipod while I'm cleaning,doing homework, or before getting in the shower. I'm forgiving of how my body looks,I know there's no perfect mold. So I chose to love who I am.     Women say I need to focus on companionship,women in my family wonder what is wrong with me.Is something wrong with me? I don't date. I haven't been kissed.I haven't held the hand of someone I loved and felt his hand hold me back. The women in my family curl up on the couch like a slumber party's group of gossipy girls, and ask if there's someone special I have my eye on. Each time I speak, I feel like I'm letting them down. I'd wish that they would lose interest in asking, but they never did.      It is possible for a pretty girl to feel ugly through casual, nonchalant glances. I

Why are you crying? She'd single me out like the dumb kid in school. I miss him. My little fingers held my attention.Twisted and intermingled like the words marking my silence. Anything to not stare into her eyes.  I just want to see my- Shut down and wrapped shut. Do you not love me? The cold callous glare took hold of my insides and smothered it into submission. No, that's not- Tears didn't know where else to fall. One after the other they fell onto my cheeks. My heart tried to break free and run. Then don't mention your father anymore. Go to sleep.  I turned over,trying to hold my breath so she wouldn't hear my stuttering cry.

I have a secret, that if I die, I wish to spread through the air so high. Pour through the valleys so throughout the sky it would be stored as a star, and when you pass by they'd shine down with gloats, and although you will try you will not know it (I will not lie). I have a secret, that if I die, will spread like marbles across the sky.

When did my eyes start looking downward? They use to look up, unaware of where I was going. (Not caring either) I'd blindly skip on the sidewalk, or trudge through the mud. I would always look upward though, because I knew you were up, and you were looking down, I was willing to face the ditches and holes that hid in the distance, because I knew you were with me. I loved that I was shielded. You would lead the way and I would trust enough to know how to follow. When did I start looking downward? Tip toe, miserably mold myself to be air-thin, and subconsciously blending in with the cement. Somewhere along the line, the heart sunk down, down, downward. The spirit had no option, but to set off and  fly.

When potentially life-altering situations present themselves on a silver platter and slide across the dinning room table to my place setting, I tend to lose my appetite. Sweaty palms, and rocks settle in the pit of my stomach. The possibility of being presented with a dish of harsh reality ,also known as "failure", mind boggles me to the point where a pinch of imperfection can be self-labeled as "unsuccessful". This life course is not a doodle on scratch paper that can be crumbled up and tossed into the waste basket. What's there is what's served, and it's right in front of me. When these situations present themselves it's best to keep the lid on so no one else at the table sees. Who knows what they'd think. Normally this would be one of those moments where what others think is none of my business, but this predicament will be inevitably served and although I have never tried it, I don't know if I'd want to. Do you get it? Do you unders

*I found this from when I was younger. I used to look up at the sky and wish that I could leave Earth and go home. I remember writing this and feeling like no one would understand. Little did I realize that this wasn't an unusual feeling. I didn't title it, I normally didn't title things because I felt it restricted my thoughts and feelings if I did it that way, but I put one for the blog. Eyes cascade to mother’s soil Heel toe, heel toe Cold chains, drooping seat Back and forth The night, those stars They dance, slide across the sky One by one   To and fro, to and fro Too far, so close Swing high,   higher! Higher! Light, love, acceptance. One more, room for one more. Love me, shine for me. Swing higher! Light’s warmth holds my face with two hands. Hair strokes my face f orward and backward. Almost there, please! Hands up in praise. Legs stiff like my future. Jump! Reach! Beg! Soar! Drop, failure,dishonor, shame.  Blood slides a

She covers her eyes,and shadows away. She's evil by night, then gentle by day.   She lays in the grave yard,never spoken a word. She's silent to the grave. Nothing's ever been heard.   She lives on the streets, yet said to live in the dark, in the old grave yard down by the park.   She lays by that same grave stone, even as we speak. Noises squeal from the grave yard,light shines through the peek.   I sit by my window, looking down at her at night. While demons dance around her, I hold my cross tight.   She was always such a shy person.She never looked at me before. Then one night she looked at me while standing at the grave yard door.   Her eyes were red.Her soul was black. But I still go to that window, and she always goes back.

The tap dancer in my fan performs nightly maxiford , cincinatti , shuffle turns , flaps , then digs , riff,   and pull backs (from single to double). "cchhhhhh chit cha chhhhhhh" Last night was "Lullaby to the Leaves." He knows I miss it, and plays in my honor.

Gossip is an old christian woman. The pink hats and tight curls, nylons, white clutch purse from the 60's and her worn out white high heels. Gossip is our first language. "Well, I don't know everything, BUUUTTT..." the flood gates open. there's no going back. it's done for. The old christian woman has played this game with God for a while. She found her loop hole, as all women think they do: "Let's form a prayer circle everyone. Come on now, let's go. We need some prayer today. Get together.(They hold hands.)  Okay, dear Lord, I pray that Harold will stop drinking. He beats his wife every night after the bar and now Nancy is out of a job because her bruises don't heal quick enough to go unnoticed..." (You hear that? That's the flood pouring through the gates.) "... Lord I pray Drew will stop having sexual relations will Mary and that he will go home to his wife, Leslie, who is still facing drug rehab and is now 

Barbie was perfect; perfect hair, perfect legs, perfect smile Purple roller blades with a purple too-too, and pink helmet for her girlie upkeep. She was my ideal woman. Barbie met up with Ken every day He was America's idea of an ideal man. Brown hair, his traffic light shirt and black pants. No shoes (he was cool like that.) I'd put them in Barbie's electric VW bug and have them go out into town. They always had fun. They would meet up with friends, they would hug and kiss. Yet in the end, they were never happy. They'd hate each other and yell. Barbie would cry and Ken would get frustrated and leave. Their daily agenda was always different. The ending the same.

Things constant in my childhood: Adam Ant on the radio "The Panda Palace" Mom's scent after work As fast as a bullet, things can come and go. No preparation. He sat next to me in three classes at Temecula Middle School. Not a huge talker. I could wring out a sentence. 6th grade, 7th grade, and 8th. P.E., English, Math, Social Studies. He would see it coming, and so talking was less of an interrogation. We didn't talk after middle school. Our simple talks were not in vain. You learn from others, from strangers. You form and grow and each person has a role in your life to shape even the smallest aspect of you. Unlike people, memories never change.  His father died, his father's girlfriend, and then himself. ABC 7 told me so. 1,2,3. No preparation. As fast as a bullet can come and go, so did he.

You want to see me cry? Show me my loves ones torn down. Show them in pain, silenced and beaten into submission. Show me every detail that separates a man from a monster. Show me what is right in America, Show me what it is not to be white. "For my God, for my country, for my family..." I pray for your soul. Tell me that there is nothing I can do to save them all. Show me a child that  says ‘nigger’, ‘japs’, ‘jew’ all because his father or mother showed him how. Show me how you tell a black man to go back to Africa when he's never been, when your forefathers brought his forefathers here on a slave ship. Tell a Hispanic student he's taking a learning opportunity away from a white student. Call an immigrant an alien or an illegal when they are a citizen. Plant these infectious seeds of bigotry into future America, lie to your recruitments and say that you're just like them. Make me watch it on Television, in the news, through music, and  fix my thoughts to reme

It's funny, I have two eyes and I never saw what lied ahead. His rapid breathing and his precious cry made me soft. This creature slowly opens his eyes and I see him. He's so soft, so warm, and he smells so fresh. To think, before then, bitterness struck  the words born from my mouth spoke harshly and selfishly (without a thought) abort it.

It shatters a thousand ways They try to pick up the remnants so as to leave in one piece Authority is a dangerous gift. The words affect them stronger than sticks, and flog them shamefully better than any stone. The sweet pleasure of brotherhood, becomes just a fantasy, along with everything else we're told as kids. It's the scene from "The Lottery." All are torn down, belittled and stripped of any self-dignity. Crowds huddle around and laugh at your misfortunes they've claimed as your own. Stolen value is smeared into the dirt with heavy black shoes, and kicked to the curb into the gutter's green slime. What monster could have so much power,  make you  lower your head from the skies to Earth? You? Me? Both.

I believe in God, because He believes in me, and in the homeless migrating out on the streets.  He believes in the kleptos in near shops that steal, and the atheists who swear to God He's not real.  He believes in love despite animosities, and in those who have labyrinths of anxieties. He believes in the lost minds who rarely adhere to the fact that Heaven is in no way like here. While his children remain steadily on the ground God believes in the O' so very praiseworthy sound of followers crying for Lord's simplicity. And that through all our trials of complicity, we shout (hands high) , "I believe Lord. The king of kings!" Just think of the unending blessings He'd bring!

I'm not good at feeling If it's needed to be shared. I can't bring someone close, without being scared. I can't quite shape it. It started since birth. It's like my heart's with God's people, but is fresh-out of self-worth. My heart belongs to the world,  because I believe in their fate, but I set up self-standards and tend to self-hate. Not an "image" self-hatred or where I am from, but a portrait self-image of who I've become. and it's easy to love and it's easy to say that you shouldn't judge this or act out in this way and it's easy to guide and not so easy to follow and it's not easy to fill your soul when it's hallow. I don't like sharing how I feel. Or who I've become, it's an attention unwanted, that makes me feel dumb. and the dumbness is numb. and the numb is the sum of the amount of good feeling that will never come.

If something makes you happy, don't be a stranger to it. Don't push it into a corner where you forget his face, or insult him by naming him "stupid" or "a hobby". It is worth so much more than that. Happiness keeps freedom in a safety deposit box,on a high shelf. When you acknowledge him, he feels inclined to share with you. Happiness can resuscitate the heart beat back into your life. If something makes you happy, don't be a stranger to it. Don't declare war on an empty battlefield where there is no purpose, Taking up arms when the opposing team refuses to fight. It doesn't care who is wrong or right, because it is worth so much more than that.

Trust does not come to me willingly. I don't welcome him with a warm embrace. That part of me was not assembled properly. It doesn't compute. Vulnerability: hand in hand with devistation and pure heartache. It's almost inevitable. I feel lower than pond scum, because I treat God like man, believing that there is nothing he can do to fix this, or me. Not believing that he can make life better, because as of now, it's a million spinning plates, and despite how fast I spin one, another one begins to topple. They can't all go at once, and since I can't do it, God must not be able to either. I can't ask for help and trust that it's okay, because that's weakness, and is frowned upon (usually(sometimes(depending(it shouldn't be)))). At church, we sat on stage (The message was spoken from the center of the room). A new perspective. Like our new series, I felt the service done in my heart was new. I could see the entire church

Bohemian poets view the world in colors uncommonly used scripting pastimes with symbols and  phrases, bounded and shared with the masses, canvassed as let-downs, thoughts, memories, inspirational memos. To convey they are not alone (neither are you). Free thinkers and believers optimists and under-achievers.   Yes, beige paint can smooth out the words, but by dawn a new story is inevitably born.

How much faith is enough to keep Satan away? A mustard seed seems inadequate. Even with this small amount of overwhelming power in our hands, Satan tip-toes on egg shells, casually wandering his hand in our pockets to rob your faith, replacing it with ideas claimed as your own. Faith does not come gift wrapped anymore. One has to squeeze it from the seeds of the old and dried forbidden fruit. Praying that just one ounce of faith would kiss our lips, and protect our soul from the one who wishes to steal it. Satan slithers silently however. He has played the game of deception before, deceiving God into believing he was a true follower. A true prince of lies. Faith and Satan weigh the same, deceptionally so. The ideas cherished in your heart come from the heart of God. ...... or do they breed like a disease derived from the devil? How to distinguish the two. How much faith keeps Satan at bay? A mustard seed seems insufficient nowadays.

The mockingly white screen blinks "stupid." Fingers tap on the table,but not on the keys. Write. Think. Do something. Inspiration runs rapidly in place.

This is ridiculous. How old are you? Yet you're back on the playground, sweaty palms, and an over-beating heart. The pressure building up in your gut to do something unheard of. uncalled for. Just do it! Will anyone be watching? Crap! Just tell them it's stupid. Then I look like a wimp. I am not a wimp. ... Crap! So I do it. This is not the kid from the playground. She's grown up now. Against my Aunt's wishes, the frilly black death trap incircling my cousin's black dress, clawing and scratching at her neck like a kitten with claws, shaped in a feminine fan, front to back, but formed like a torture device proudly planted by Satan himself, was unstitched from the seems of her dress. The day before her sister's wedding. Take it out Alexa, I won't say that it was you. Her mother, my aunt, repetitively said no, but the advantage of my cousin's wild youth took hold of me and told me yes. So I unstitched it, flawlessly, but

As for mortals, their days are like grass; they flourish like a flower of the field; for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more. Psalm 103:15,16. When I die, my memories should live on without me. Don't let them die on my account. The human shell that forms what defines me here on Earth will decompose. Because it shouldn’t define me, it’s disposable. My looks will blend with the soil, my hair will thin and become like hay, but immortal me that resides in this soul will refuse to be forgotten. I would never wish for loved ones to cry for me, And they shouldn’t be allowed to wear black at my funeral. Admire me for what I offer, my inner beauty. What I’ve learned from death is that you cannot live your life passively. I don't know what I'll be remembered for, but I will be remembered. Joan of Arc was a martyr at nineteen. Rosa Parks proved the word "no" can inspire a new era of thinking. Emily Dickinso

Brace yourself world! I come full throttle. Like a ninja warrior, sneaky, assertive (but with a feminine style). You might never see me coming. You ambush with ninja stars of soul piercing heart ache, or an occasional  bomb combusts into a ritual of disappointments. However,I've been trained, and  your moves are predictable. I see them coming like distant rain clouds. I'm ready to look you in the eye,and tell you that you're weak. For every event that appears bad in our lives, there is an underlying good, and you've done so well sweeping it under your rug of lies. I can't help but smile. I know that this annoys you world, but my indestructible moves, make me undefeated. While you've made your choice to go against man, I've learned mankind is not  hopeless. Watching you get angry brings me joy, because you've sat and watched me suffer, for as long as I can remember. So now that I'm older, you're not so skilled. The student h

Purity is tied on a string, it's something I always bring. Yet when sin tips the cradle, it's branches are fatal, and batters the heart of the king. Purity is held in both hands  (and usually no one understands). but with a sinful kiss, it flies off your wrist. and fly away if given the chance. Purity dances to the wind. Precious to those who have sinned. Then sin brings it down. Like a brick to the ground. and good nature is suddenly pinned. Purity all along reminds us where we belong. Through the hazadrous waste of satan's bad taste. it remains almighty and strong. Mental Note: Be the best you can be in the flawless image of God.

I am always waiting.... I sit with prayer hands, counterfeit smile, and legs crossed. You take time for granted... because you know when you're through, I'll be sitting at your home and my world comes to an abrupt halt, until you decide to grace it with your presence. You know what keeps me coming, and you know that mostly it's not for you. My optimistic heart tells me that you want to love me, that you want to be like the ones in the movies. I don't say this because I don't want to be cold, but I think it's evident that we're strangers. You know nothing about me, and the colors in the mental portrait I created of you is slowly smearing "failure." When will I learn? The joke is on me, because I'm still waiting. Mental Note: Focus on God. God is all you need. God God God.

I'm envious of the poor man. He sleeps under a canvass of stars, and drinks up the dew from the grass in the morning. He has no earthly items; He can go anywhere with the clothes on his back, an empty plastic water bottle, and a radio. He is not bound to a job, or bills, or responsibility. He is not ashamed to go against the social norm, and doesn't always shower or feel the need to shave. He may wear his coat and beanie in the sun, and collect cans and bottles from the trash, but who is to say he isn't happy? How can we look at him and pity him? He lives off the Earth like the good Lord intended. We say he must drink, do drugs, sleep with skanks in an alley. Some may, but it's not originally by choice. We pity him, chastize him, make him inferior. For what purpose? Because he isn't living the standard of life Society claims as appropriate? Even then people aren't always happy. They continue to want more. The poor man is happy with his bottle

Why is it so hard to believe we're beautiful? Four of five bridesmaids can say you look beautiful in your wedding gown. Hair pinned into a princess bun with one curl flowing solo by your ear. Pearls draped across your neck, more makeup then you'll ever wear again in your lifetime. Your white dress has boning that makes your waste look slender and sleek. The kind of look ideal for a man's hands to rest while taking his first dance with his wife. The dress has a poof just right and shoes sparkle and match the glowing smile. Like Cinderella, you're ready to step into that room full of people and show how beautiful you are. Your father kisses you on the cheek and wipes his "first tear in five years" off his face. The man you love (who loves you to the moon and back) waits for you behind church doors, nervous, but confident. Lined up before the doors open, you can't help but look at the one woman who said nothing to you. Insecurities galore. "I

Running without a purpose is a selfless gift straight from the heart of God that lets me know He is here. Running, jumping, ssssprinting bare feet, full of joy To admire his creations, and  to not misuse them, but live as one WITH them (a creation among other creations), is worship, the best kind. Loving God. Living God. Breathing God. The roots of understanding and compassion lie deep within the soils of our Earth, (which from the ground, it breaks the surface and progresses through our toes, into the roots of our veins which eventually pulses through our heart). We never stop to listen, and our heart knows, because God lives there, and his knowledge is infinite. Mental Note: All God's creations tell us more of who He is. Listen.

It's ironic when The things that I find funny no one will laugh at I can stress at work and know when I'm home, I'm home and that work can wait -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-* With words unspoken, my heart is now broken. Take it as a token of my surrender.

I don't know how to feel (or what I'm feeling). Things I never thought I would say I've said out loud to others and unhealthy emotions I would never express I've let brew inside of me, willingly. Brewing, this boiling substance that wraps up all anger and hatred into this balled knott pulls downward in the pit of my stomach. It sits there and it weighs me down, down so much I've had a hard time bringing it up and letting it off my chest. My tear ducts have this unfamiliar pressure and my eyes have this tingling sensation, but no tears form. My chest hurts, and as a result my breathing is anything but regular. Like a dog on a hot day, I'm panting. I have been running to catch my breath, and I still am. I don't know how to feel, mainly because it's an unfamiliar feeling. Do all these emotions together form something entirely new? Or is this just me not knowing how to deal, or what to do? God help me. Mental Note: You

I look over the pier, and feel the water undulate, synchronizing with the salty winds and swaying like a pendulum beneath my feet. There's a fisherman not too far off. I see him toss his net over the sea, and pull another one in. I can feel the water move through the wooden planks. The sea tumbles onto the sand. High tide, low tide. on the shore, thrown out to sea. When you work with nature's rhythm, instead of going against it, it all seems to go smoothly. The wind, the water, the fisherman one after another, in tune with time, never out of sync (you might think you've found just a moment of imperfection,but it wouldn't be) It's a symphony. Mental Note: You tell me...

We went on a walk. Just Jake and me. Brother and sister. Both with iPods on, phones in pocket, with shorts and a tank top. We talked about life, (and not the life you tell people when they ask how you're doing. Real life. How we're really doing.) We talked about girls. boys. movies. music. We went on a walk that turned into an adventure. We climbed over tree roots, laced in the brim of the Earth. Ran to the top of hills that lead to a handful of nothingness. Jumped over ditches (or fell into mud found in ditches). We didn't know where we were going. Shoes came off and I allowed my feet to reach out and meet with God's soil. We went on a walk that turned into forty minutes of nothing and everything wonderful at once. Not even the best of cameras could capture these moments, even in the best of pictures. (Pictures saying a thousand words would not be enough to describe our afternoon). We smelled dinner cooking from every kitchen on Meandering Tr

I don't want to grow old. The world turns on you and betrays everything you worked for. As a child, it works with you. As a teen, it's always against you. As an adult, it's a group effort. When you're old, it turns its back on you. I went to Atria because I was forced to. I stayed at Atria because I wanted to. So many people believing that there was nothing left to live for. Preparing their wills and getting religion because they're ready to die. It was heart-breaking. The kind of thing that makes you want to cry out of hoplessness. Which is something they feel each day, but it was a new feeling for me. I still believe the world is a good place. I wonder if the world turns against them, to remind them we're not of this world. Or  because it was never on our side to begin with. My hand instantly goes to Bess's knee as she lays cold, half-naked on her bed. One foot in this world, one foot at God's gate. I see her ribs, her sullen

It's interesting to me, the things that change in ones life and what always remains constant. No matter what school I went to, it was all the same. "Ms. Mary Mac,Mac,Mac all dressed in black,black,black." and I would jump. Traditional or Double Dutch they both brought me the kind of joy that makes you involuntarily laugh out loud. "Cinderella dress in yella, went upstairs to kiss a fella." The plastered smile would never let go. My brown sandals would start hopping. 1 2  3 JUMP, 1 2 3 JUMP. I'd spin the circles and touch the ground. I was good at it. It made me HAPPY. Sometimes they'd go faster to try and make me fall. 1 2 JUMP, 1 2 JUMP. but for the most part the games never changed. Any playground you go to, they're all the same. I get taken back when I hear them sing: "School, school, don't be late. Sign your name on the golden gate." Mental Note: Appreciate the little things that make you smile.

I've decided I love you ,but will never be like you. I couldn't. Don't have that in me (and wouldn't want to either). I see the children look up to you. They trust you so much. Believe you could move mountains, and fly if you wanted to. I see the children when you let them down. Like their hopes they saw in you were destroyed. Like you could have saved them, and you chose not to. I get furious all over again. I remember that hurt. Hurt as a child is worse than hurt when you're grown, because it's so new. I remember seeing kids during recess. Laughing with their friends and living in a world that I already knew didn't exist. They probably thought they could fly. Probably believed they could move mountains. They believed anything they were told. I decided I will never be like you. When I say I'll be there, there I will be. When I promise to do something, it's already done. I couldn't stand to look at my child's

Dreams remind me of a shy child, never speaking his mind. When you talk in your sleep late at night, Dreams try to speak. They inform you of your forgotten world, nestled in the cracks of creativity inside your brain. Improbable improbabilities and whatever what-not’s your inferior part of your brain conjures stimulates within your crevices of your imagination. It implores to be spread onto a mockingly white sheet of paper, Or shared through artwork and other forms of appreciations. It desperately wants you to remember what it was like to be a child. And live in an unreality. When you wake, you say, “What a strange dream I had? What did I dream?” That’s your dreams shying away. It tip toes past your eyes and quietly resides in the back of your mind, And backs up into your invented world, slowly closing the door behind him. Mental Note: Don't let yourself grow up on the inside.

I have this thing with people. Where friends or family from one group cannot mingle with another. I call them "bubbles". They can't cross. These bubbles cannot cross. I get anxiety GALORE! I have this thing where having them cross results in ultimate destruction. Some call this a "problem", some say "psychotic". Define either words for me. You'd see. It's all a matter of opinion. What does society think? Because along with being given the power to assign cacaphonous connotations to words, society has got their own thing where what they say apparently goes. Therefore my little "thing" is a "problem." Screw that, and them. Thank you very,very much. Just an F.Y.I. Society, you're going in your own bubble. Don't feel special. Mental Note: God loves my quirks. He made me this way.

I, for one, think your voice is seraphic. My friend says your voice sounds like a thousand angels pissing on an orphanage. Try telling that to an orphan. "Her voice sounds like God's helpers peeing on your only home." Some people you just can't use the term "friends" loosely with. I tell ya. Mental Note: Laugh often.

You could have stopped it. I would have nothing bad to say. I wouldn't blame you. I sinned, not you. you're perfect. While the world was weighing you down with callous glances, and cold-heartedly shouted,"crucify him! CRUCIFY HIM!" You lay nailed, remained calm,saddened by what the world has become God's creations against one another we're tearing eachother apart like the plague. yet you hold no grudges We know how to live. We know how to love one another, what to say, not to say, not to kill, or lie, or cheat, or steal. Yet we live wrong. You could have called the angels. They could have filled the sky and blocked out the sun and mirrored the darkness we have allowed into our hearts. You could have shown you were the son of God. They would have changed their ways. For the time being. You could have called the angels and aborted your philantropic desire to be the ultimate sacrifice. but you didn't. I look around Jesus, a

I’d rather spend my days Listening to the wind’s sermons Beneath the trees alongside the pews of flowers And sing of praise with the sparrows Mental Note: God is everywhere.

I don't know what made me make this blog account. All I know is, sometimes I need to write what I'm thinking. It's my way to step back and review my life. I forget in all my chaos that God has a plan for me, and that by staying focused on him, I could live a much simpler lifestyle. I just need to stop, breath, and remember God's simplicity. After I write my thoughts down, I'm reminded of God's love.