Happiness is tears of laughter,
video games with your redheaded son,
rescuing a baby ferret to look after,
or telling a ridiculously cheesy pun.

Happiness is a home cooked meal,
your mom randomly giving you a hug,
a Harry Potter sticker on your driving wheel,
or seeing summer's first June bug.

Happiness is your dad being proud of you,
Momma's homemade queso in a crock ***,
an ocean wave so stunningly blue,
or learning how to dance in an empty parking lot,

Happiness is running two miles,
sitting in a pew singing "It is well",
watching the Netflix Ted Bundy trials,
or a collection of Galveston seashells.

Happiness is driving through Spring,
a spontaneous trip to the Houston Zoo,
or twenty percent off a James Avery ring.
But mostly... happiness is me when I'm with you.

Archive that text message
and print out that photo.
Tomorrow isn’t promised
and the future is unknown.

So be a collector of moments
and always hoard the keepsakes.
They’re not just meaningless accessories,
but tangible smiles or heartbreaks.

Movie tickets and keychains,
birthday wishes, and card games.
Photo albums and Summer rain,
love notes and paper planes.

The people in those memories
will come and go over the years.
But they'll be remembered in the saved
tokens of the past or in your nostalgic tears.

Endings lead to new beginnings.
One door closing makes several others open.
Ideally, before the new door **** is spinning,
the old door should be locked with all ties broken.

This corridor between the past and future
makes my cautious and indecisive mind spin.
Invitations from new doors feel like sutures
closing up the emotional wounds on my skin.

The corridor of choices feels like I’m in limbo
constantly being pulled in different directions
surrounded by doors when all I want is a window
which could answer my simple questions.

A window inside the doors allowing a sneak peak
of what life would look like and what may lie ahead.
Would I be happy with him and finally feel peace?
Or will coming home to him be something I dread?

But unfortunately, life doesn’t work that way
and you don’t get spoilers that help you make decisions.
You’re supposed to just breathe, turn that doorknob, and pray
that what stands behind it waiting for you fits your idyllic vision.

Whew. Here it goes… Dear God,
I seek to understand you
but the ideas seem so broad
and I fear of biting off more than I can chew.

Followers say you’re all about love
and to simply “just have faith,”
but I feel disappointment from Heaven above
and I feel for me, it’s just too late.

I’ve been through so much
And meanwhile, I felt all alone.
My unanswered prayers led to a grudge
And I chose to just keep myself afloat.

My questions hold me down
from believing without seeing.
How could you let an innocent child drown?
Why does it seem like you neglect certain human beings?

Why do horrible things happen to good people?
Do you really believe that all people deserve forgiveness?
Is Hell full of people that took pleasure from ink in a needle?
Why does the negative connotation exist for the word “religious?”

I’ve struggled with the idea of you
And I’ve given up numerous times.
But still, I patiently wait for my breakthrough.
And I still try to read between the lines.

Although I have doubts, I promise to never stop praying
and to keep trying my best to understand faith.
And If I ever get to see your face, I promise I’ll begin by saying,
thank you for my blessings and showing me a lifetime of grace.

Every being has a story.
A hopeful beginning, an adventurous middle, and a tragic ending.
Stories told via ballads, film reels, ink on parchment,
or parking lot narratives disguised as a friend venting.

She saw beauty in people being unpublished stories,
a behind the scenes director’s cut on the hidden scenes of life,
quarter notes on a staff translating memories into sound,
or a series of written chapters allowing the past to survive.

She could spend hours walking through cemeteries
knowing that every monument represents lifetimes of tales,
and that six feet below are the hands which fought for her freedom
and ocean eyes that sparkled in 1941 as he lifted his bride's veil.

She tears up as she stumbles through thrift stores
knowing that every picture frame or cracked vase holds meaning,
and that a stranger could glance at this hideous green center piece
and remember an unbroken family around a dinner table beaming.

Despite her idealistic fascination with the jigsaw pieces of others,
she often questioned the plot in the story of her own life.
Has she done anything worthy of being remembered? Or Will She?
In sixty years, will her grave visitors laugh, smile, or cry?
Will he think of her when he hears ocean waves or piano keys?

Either stunning or horrific, stories cannot be altered or forgotten.
One day, she hopes that her story is something to simply adore.
A hopeful beginning, an adventurous middle, and a tragic ending.
Every being has a story. What's yours?

Your heart beat is as steady as a snare
And your tattoos act as trace lines for my fingertips.
The rhythm of our inhales and exhales harmonize
As our naked limbs twist and tangle to intermix.

You gently snore into my hair
And your muscly biceps securely embrace me.
The sweet aroma of your skin floods my lungs
As I hopelessly gaze at you ever so lovingly.

My eyes moisten for I wasn't supposed to get attached.
And these feelings shred the strings of my fragile heart.
You saved me when I needed a savior and you
Appeared with an absorbent shoulder for support.

Inevitably, I collapsed into the abyss of unreturned love
And I long for a day where our feelings synchronize.
But, I admit that I'm fervidly in love with my "best friend."
As I fight tears, silently break, and wait for sleep to arrive.

She was wild, free, but broken
With freshly shattered chains.
The neon lights called her name
And Tequila filled her veins.

Her ring finger tan line was fading
But the emotional damage remained.
She felt like she had wasted precious years
Of her youth and only herself was to blame.

The music blared and the lights lowered
As the couples filled the dance hall.
Her red curls cascaded and her lips curled into a smile
When he extended a hand and said, “You wanna waltz, doll?”

He twirled her around for what seemed like days,
As Chris Stapleton serenaded her heart.
She danced, she drank, and she laughed
And she tried relentlessly to keep from falling apart.

She was wild, free, but broken
With freshly shattered chains.
The neon lights called her name
And Tequila filled her veins.