A Warrior’s (Writer’s) Prayer
Ah, the night, that time when the mind refuses its call to slumber, that time when rants and raves fill the heart with a desire unique to the tortured soul. Alone we stand even in […]
Ah, the night, that time when the mind refuses its call to slumber, that time when rants and raves fill the heart with a desire unique to the tortured soul. Alone we stand even in […]
It felt good to let go, to watch her walk freely into the world on the path she had chosen for herself. Her smile was evidence of a just Universe, her life since then proof of something wonderful. Yes, beautiful things can come from the ugliest of places.
Naturally, without the fine tuning of an artist’s pen upon your skin, you are beautiful. Found in the subtle power of your touch, of the simple yet overwhelming grip of your gaze, is the defined knowledge of beauty born in the chills that run down my spine.
So I’ve made this commitment to write something every day of lent as part of my “Give Something, Don’t Sacrifice, for Lent” thought. Rather than sacrifice, say, ketchup for lent, I decided to share my […]
Your man is here. Your man is back, and he has found the world that you have shown him to be as you said it was. He will be that man you can’t take your eyes of off. He will be that man that makes you sweat at the slightest touch. He will be that man who so captures your gaze and steals your imagination.
He stood, frozen. The fear created within a lifetime came flooding to his face as his eyes began to let go a torrent of pent-up suffering. He dropped to his knees and sobbed. Yes, the end was near, and there was no certainty that he would live to see it.
See, when see that picture of God as an old man with a rod in his hand, I often think that God isn’t the old man at all. God is the rod. The old man simply knows how to use it, and for that knowledge he gets painted all over the world and is worshiped as beyond measure. So, learn how to use the rod my friends and be worshiped. Not by the world, but by YOUR world. Her. The woman. The one who shows you who you are when no one else can.
He laid there, the immense pain in his chest beginning to numb under the realization that he was dying. Just moments before he was alive, enjoying the morning with his beloved, laughing about the memories they had created the night before. Now, he was sprawled out on the living room floor fighting for air, and wanting so desperately to talk.
I could not look down for fear of seeing where I was heading. I could not look up because, well, “up” had rejected me. All I knew was at this moment I was married to this piece of glass, and if that glass wouldn’t accept me all I could do is try to accept it and hang on for fear of falling into the abyss.