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In the beginning,  was the Word.
The Word did battle with the dragon
The dragon was an angel.
Everything in the beginning was good,
Until iniquity was found in this angel.
Then the WAR began.
It was a fight to see
who would win,
the Word, and the dragoned angel.
God prevailed.
In heaven.
Now he had to prevail on Earth.

And as he lay dying on the cross
He heard a voice.
And he recognized that voice
It was Caiphas.
But Jesus knew the SPIRIT behind that voice.
Caiphas walked up and down
And spat out
If you are the Son of God
save yourself!
You don’t even have to save us.
Enough is enough of this nonsense.
You claimed,  to be able to save the world,
But you cannot free yourself off of two sticks?!
The Word was silent.
The one who spoke creation into existence did not speak.

And Caiphas continued.
You disgust me.
Now look,
you are calling for Elijah.
We all know His fire cannot help you this time.
What are you gonna do,
Burn yourself off of the cross?!
Just step off the cross, and the pain will be over
Your allegiance to your cause, is astounding.
Or more accurately, pathetic.
Because of it, you are now stuck between two thieves,
hanging in the boiling hot sun,
about to die.
Is this how you envisioned yourself?!
Such is the fate of fools.
The problem with dying for a cause is when the cause demands more than death.
  
Well, Jesus died.
And rose again
He was the one strong enough to lift the stone
Because the Son of God could not stay buried.
Although he left our sins buried.
He rose again.
And brought the victory from heaven, to earth, and back to heaven again.
So now we can walk in victory everywhere our feet can touch.

I don’t write
I weave with words
Until they read
Like spells of magic

We write because we can feel,
We write because our lips are sealed.
We cannot say our thoughts, so we write.
A poets mind.
Filled with thoughts that are ready to be written.
A mind like the ocean so deep and wide.

But a true poet doesn’t write from his mind,
a poet writes from his heart.
A heart that was torn apart.
A poet writes his pain and sufferings.
Poems that are dark and deep,
and when you read them it makes you weep.

A poet writes wonderful thoughts of the heart.
Even if a poets heart was torn apart.
A poet do not think, a poet feels.
And a poet writes what he feels.
His thoughts never comes from the mind,
it's the heart that commands a poet every time.

I like them a little bit older
The ones who can get a bit bolder
I like them a little more mature
The ones who really know when they’re sure
I like them a little bit stronger
The ones who tend to last much longer
I like them a little more fiery
The ones who can fill up my diary
I like them little bit braver
The ones who chase a bold flavor
I like them just a little more ready
The ones who are almost ready for me.