“I’m holding happiness as though it never left it was always below my skin. Waiting to be seen waiting for the opportunity to breathe again.”

It was meant to be just rain, that went away. Yet we became the storm, of yesterday.

Wouldn’t it be a different world if love passed as freely through us as money passes through hands.

We are much like the nights sky, the big things draw our attention. But its the little things that really light us up.

I’m holding onto you, like a cloud holds rain. Knowing at some point I must let go. But waiting for the perfect storm, that will make it so much easier.

Sometimes my lion will try to roar back when I flee. But its my butterfly that keeps me silent when I leave.

You’re the crescent moon cradling all theses shadows of me teach me how to shine so there’s no distance between you and I.

Pain is as dark as it is deep. But just like anything that receives enough light, it too will fade over time and become something, a little less ominous, and a little more hopeful.

Pain often hides behind dry eyes yet that river still flows on the inside.

It’s those hands of time saving me when nothing else can.

Skin on skin his heart beat an orchestra against her chest. Love never tires of music like this.

I am caught between the meadow and the sky knowing I can walk long distances, but believing there’s something greater than where my feet can take me.

There is no road less travelled than the one that leads into the sea. But the waves will always take you to where you need to be.

Morning mist like a blanket to dawn, obscures the hope of a new day. Yet the sunrises high, and the blanket falls and hope returns to the stage.

Take me from this wasteland, for I have longed for an escape like a bird that craves the wilderness, from every corner of his cage.

Sometimes it is not about the touch at all it is about the hands they belong too.

Bitter sweet rose her thorns pierce every bone, but her lustful petals fall like bandaids for bleeding sores.

Let your weary soul rest in between each borrowed breath.

The Lord breathes the breath of life, contrition of heart, into the face of the soul when he impresses upon it his own image and likeness, which has been soiled by sin, and renews it.

I feel all that, your touch your presence your breath but can’t tell if its you I’m looking at.

The Lord breathes the breath of life, contrition of heart, into the face of the soul when he impresses upon it his own image and likeness, which has been soiled by sin, and renews it.

When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive—to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love—then make that day count!

For me, managing my energy means slowing myself down before the big event. I slow down the racing thoughts in my mind. I concentrate on and slow down my breathing. I listen to and steady my heart rate.

Let God be the air in which your heart breathes at ease.

I do not write. My lungs just breathe in words.