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Personal prayer is all very well and good.

Sunday morning worship is all fine and dandy.

But ya know what?

Sometimes you just need to throw your arms in the air and bellow, "HALLELUJAH!"

*Love those kids

(hear that?
             my heart just broke.)

And- it's your fault.
All of you.
You hideous, gorgeous, creatures.

Everything you write
Makes me want to cry
Breaks my beating heart
Takes, and takes, and takes.

                         And then

Everything you write
Gives my heart hope
Lives in my soul.
Returns, returns, returns.

How can we do it?
How can we possibly do it?

Play god?
Give life!
Give death!
Take hope!
Take mourning!

Every day, we create tiny universes, pocket worlds, works of art.
Every day, we destroy the same.

Only one explanation.

**We must be mad!
(crazed grin)

Inspired by a poem I saw tonight that made me honestly sad. Go check it out:
My lover rose out of the sea one day
And kissed me all rosy and warm;
I beckoned him in to my cave to stay,
But he sighed, for the gathering storm.
But he sighed, for the gathering storm.

My lover rose out of the sea that eve,
And sadly he started to warn,
"My love, much too soon you my death will grieve,
For I die with the gathering storm.
For I die with the gathering storm."

My lover rose out of the sea that night
For to marry me next Sunday morn;
But the Fates had declared thus in all their might:
"He will die with the gathering storm.
He will die with the gathering storm."

My lover rose out of the sea one day
For to face his gathered storm.
He gave me a grin and a rose from our bay,
But the storm came and left me forlorn.
But the storm came and left me forlorn.
Luscious lilting lullabies lightly linger in the air.
Wondrous words whispered in willow trees wink through windows at the widows and the wanted alike.

Lovers make words delicious and insinuate dangerous kisses with few syllables.

Friends make words kind and embrace warmly with charmingly unaware, patterned banter.

Betrayers make words smooth and deceive easily with conscientiously phrased flattery.

I tell you truly-
I am not your lover,
I am not your friend,
I am not your betrayer.

I tell you truly-
I am a Creatrix.

I am a writer, a poet, a dreamer, a weaver,

I make words true and beautiful, honest and shimmering.

I dare not tell you facts-
I tell you the truth

Like a many-faceted jewel, the truth is.
Infinitely large and various,
yet singular in beauty.

Weaving willowy whispered words.
How wondrous.
Life is short,

and sorrows sting,

And death his final toll will ring,

Still yet-
Still yet-

The birds will sing

their music.
Alright, confession time: this is nearly a copy of another poem. The words are all different- it is mine. But I adore the original. It's in a book called The Abarat, by Clive Barker. The poem itself doesn't have a name.
She is the blur of the chatter of a crowd at the State Fair, happy, jostling, buying, wondering, marveling, buzzing.

She is the heat of an oven opened to remove the brownies, rushing in a wave to flush your cheeks.

She is the bright blue breeze of easy laughter between close friends lightening the load on Atlas' shoulders.

She is the opening bar of Für Elise, hauntingly inviting, beautifully questioning.

She is the delicious contrast of hot sun and cool breeze.

She is patience.
She is comfort.

She is The Listening One.
She is my friend.
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