He's the hand I felt on my shoulder as the tornado went over me . He's the one who saved me from choking to death in my own ***** . He's the one who sat beside me on the mountaintop as I cried over my wrongs . And if I ever kneeled before him he would take my hands and raise me so I could kiss his cheek . Who is God ? My best friend who has saved me time and time again . Who understands my limits and my failures but forgives me each and every time . One who is always there for me to lean on when I am tired , lonely , discouraged . One who has shown me heaven and promised a place there for me .
Who is God ? He is in me , my past , my present , and future . I am nothing without my God .

Mine halcyon forelimb's stroke the reaper hamlet, I stand upon doom-departed bluff,  waving a white apparel insignia... At twilight black insomnia rages the run-a-bout, wherein the fear connects to doubt, just wanting one to simply cuddle me! In tucked in gardenia's underneath the sycamore tree. Yet to much blancheness wherein color should be fiery elegant wherein from whence it cameth..... The potluck flamekiss to light underneath mine eyes to roll them back as dice in a skillfully played out bet!!!!

sometimes
it doesn’t matter enough
sometimes
it matters but not enough to change it
sometimes
it matters but not enough to admit it
sometimes
it matters but it’s too difficult to change it
sometimes
pride and shame stand in the way
sometimes
fear stops change
sometimes
nothing is done and the paralysis of denial takes over
sometimes
the people you hurt forgive you and move on
sometimes
they want you to do the same

~
he who is a little ahead of his time
whose treasures of the words random
romanticism is in the blood, marrow,
his mood is as the autumn clouds

he who has lost his path within path
drowning with dreams, sunk you within dreams  
again holds thousands of lost dreams
fly the colorful kites in the blue sky

he who hide within himself
**** in his naked poetry
In forms humorous,harmonic  
as a portrait of the Vincent's starry night

he is a pilgrim who has lost himself within spirituality  
holds everything with the love  
who is for everybody so everybody is for him
But in fact there is nothing in all his

he who is simple straight as the waterfall
when in complex grew hard stone
who broke rules for building rules,
knows himself within the other life

whose words never be end
again he moves on and on
who laughs in the moonlight
again swept in pain without thinking any gain

who looks the life
as a grain of sand
and see the sign of love
in the footprint of a fossil

he who is a poet -
~