dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.

I want people to know that I am not trying to be rude.
That I know that each of you are very special to me.
As well as Christ, you really do mean a lot to me too.
I know that each of you have your gifts as well as Light.
That glows through you revealing God to other people.
Each person has their degree of Light , even the Lost.
Because everyone was born in the image of Christ.
Its up to each of us whether this Light shines or not.
So by loving others this Light becomes brighter.

Maybe you will never understand why
when another insult leaves your lips
I wish I was there to kiss you and
halter any more words
you could speak,
which lost in translation have
the power to break the bones
across my heart, unhealed from
the last words I’d hoped
you’d refrain from saying.

So if I bleed, or if I cry,
or if I don’t even know how to smile,
know I’ll only kiss your lips because
I’d rather give the kiss of Judas
than hear another word.

© Sia Jane

Light, dancing wildly
Spectrums of colour, of creation
I look at my reflection
Against the cool glass
my breath staining it like frost
Sometimes I am transparent
like this mirror, like this cold air
and still, I look into myself
the crushing weight of the world
making the glass pulse
and my pulse, shatter
My emotions bleed out onto a wood frame
seeping through and taking shape
Turbulent, uncertain, blazing, brilliant
Is this me?
My inner turmoil made flesh
inside this glass tomb

I am, as I have always been,
On the wrong side of the mirror.