Four days before tomorrow a boy was sitting at youth group
It was dark and he could see billions of stars

He heard the deep voice of his Pastor asking the kids to look up
He wanted them to realize that looking up is not just literal
By looking at the beauty of the cosmos they could also see God

The Pastor explained how we as humans don't look up enough; not to God

He said to the kids and the boy:
"You know, the world is a really heavy place.
Every day a new pressure is placed upon humanity.

This weight prevents us from looking up to God
It turns us away.

Others it pushes them to their knees,
They sit there and pray
And pray
And pray
But they can't get up"

The boy glanced up and saw that his Pastor had a guitar out

The Pastor asked his students to rise to their feet to praise.

He strummed some soothing cords and he praised God
They raised their voice to the heavens and sang to God together

The Pastor spoke in between his songs.
He asked his students
He asked them to raise their hands
He asked them to look to the sky and Praise
He asked them to sing each song as a prayer

When they were all sat down the Pastor asked them a question.
He asked:
"Why, did I have you raise your hands"

All of them were quite for a minute.

Then the boy said something.
He said:
"We raised our hands to hold up the sky.
We used our hands to hold up the pressure of the world, and we prayed to God for help."

The boy, empowered by the butterflies in his heard. She shivers in his skin. The clearness of his sight. He added:

If the whole world raised their hands for praise,
All the world's pressure could end

"We could raise our hands in church
In mosque's
In synagogue's
In our homes

Then nobody would have to fight
Nobody would have to starve
Nobody would have to shiver
Nobody would be alone"

Shacking the boy sat down

The silence that followed was absolute

The air was pressure free

The sky was clear

The stars were bright.

I'm going to tell you a story

One about a little bitty boy
And a little bitty girl

They both lived in a small town
And went to a little school

But the little bitty boy was not loved
He was in the first grade for the second time
He was a stranger to everyone

He was a victim of little bitty bullies
With there little bitty words

When he was seven he balanced on the edge of a blade
He **** near plunged it into his little bitty chest
And ended his little bitty life

The boy might have done so if it wasn't for the girl
She didn't know him but smiled his way
It's amazing what a smile means to someone whose muscles had forgotten how

In the sixth grade the little bitty girl sat by the little bitty boy
They talked for a while
A spark was lit for little bitty friends

The boy and girl became best friends quick
They hung out and did what middle schoolers do
They built forts and made paper weddings for unsuspecting friends

There came a time when neither child was little bitty anymore
By the time they realized that boys liked girls
That girls liked boys
They didn't know what to do

The boy asked the girl to hold his hand once
And the girl left him
She dropped him and ran

It was a long time

The boy grew dark
He found self hate and anger
He lost the friend who saved his life

Half a year later he talked with the girl again
They both made their feelings clear
Friends forever, nothing else

Something wasn't right

By the time they were seniors
There was friction to be seen
She, the pacifist and "mature"
He, the liberal and "immature"

They had opinions on many things
Few of them the same
Yet they were part of a large group of brothers and sisters
They could not part

So there they stand today
Both friends and enemies
The girl that stole the boys heart
The boy that only got pieces back

The boy was reminded by the girl
After saying something ridiculous
Just how much the girl hated him
He still feels the bitter iron in her words

The little bitty boys' light did dim
The little bitty girl went on cold as ever
Together they were sperate
Separate they were at peace
Forever to be known,
That was all

There is something uniquely powerful about a campfire

They can be small intiment family things.
Filled with s'mores and laughter

They can be grand bonfires whose flames
Flicker with the conviction that it too is as bright as a star

There is also the kind of fire at a late night church gathering.
The one that is built to last whilst the whole congregation sways to the praise of their God.

But then theres perhaps the best kind of fire.
The one that is surrounded by your friends.
One of them brought his acoustic guitar
He picks it up and starts playing
That girl you've had a crush on starts singing and you freeze.
The elegance of the guitar mixes with the rich voice of the girl
Together the sounds brings goosebumps to your arms
Tears to your eyes.
The only interruption is the crackle of the fire
The whole group, other than the singer
Is quite
Everyone holding their breath.
So that they don't disturb the moment

There are some things I have wanted to say.
Stories I've wanted to tell

I wanted to tell you how the moon, on that special lunar occasion,
How it is red not because of the blood moon,
Rather because it is the reflection of a thousand sunsets all on one canvas.

Or I could tell you about that old lady I saw on the street the other day

How the wrinkles on her ***** hands matched that on her torn shirt.
How those wrinkles looked like waving rows of wheat to the bread she'll never eat

I could talk about the sunset!
Oh the sunset!
How the last ray of sun light is like that of the love of an old man who watched his wife of fifty years fall from cancer.
How even though his light is gone, he can still see her image refracted on the horizon, as if one last kiss to the world

I could talk about the young girl down the block,
The one who people call "fake" because she covers her face in foundation,
The same face her boyfriend left bruised and swollen.

I can talk about the girl I saw on my walk today.
The one who flinched every time her father raised his hand,
The one that wasn't holding his beer of course.

I could talk about sunsets.
I could talk about the beauty of the moon.
I could talk about a lot of things.

I could talk about poverty
I could talk about abuse or ****
I could talk about a lot of things

Society dictates that I should talk about the good things
I should talk about the sunset, and the butterflies
Oh! The butterflies!

Society is a lot like a butterfly
Its beautiful,
Free,
Alive

But society has heavy problems

Ones that "can't be talked about"

The weight of these problems will rip the wings from a butterfly.
Leaving it to fall to the Earth

Earth, where it will be forgotten
It will be stamped upon
It will be ignored

Until one day it dies
Until it's suddenly a tragedy,

What a pity

are some things I have wanted to say.
Stories I've wanted to tell

I wanted to tell you how the moon, on that special lunar occasion,
How it is red not because of the blood moon,
Rather because it is the reflection of a thousand sunsets all on one canvas.

Or I could tell you about that old lady I saw on the street the other day

How the wrinkles on her ***** hands matched that on her torn shirt.
How those wrinkles looked like waving rows of wheat to the bread she'll never eat

I could talk about the sunset!
Oh the sunset!
How the last ray of sun light is like that of the love of an old man who watched his wife of fifty years fall from cancer.
How even though his light is gone, he can still see her image refracted on the horizon, as if one last kiss to the world

I could talk about the young girl down the block,
The one who people call "fake" because she covers her face in foundation,
The same face her boyfriend left bruised and swollen.

I can talk about the girl I saw on my walk today.
The one who flinched every time her father raised his hand,
The one that wasn't holding his beer of course.

I could talk about sunsets.
I could talk about the beauty of the moon.
I could talk about a lot of things.

I could talk about poverty
I could talk about abuse or ****
I could talk about a lot of things

Society dictates that I should talk about the good things
I should talk about the sunset, and the butterflies
Oh! The butterflies!

Society is a lot like a butterfly
Its beautiful,
Free,
Alive

But society has heavy problems

Ones that "can't be talked about"

The weight of these problems will rip the wings from a butterfly.
Leaving it to fall to the Earth

Earth, where it will be forgotten
It will be stamped upon
It will be ignored

Until one day it dies
Until it's suddenly a tragedy,

What a pity-Oh look! A celebrity!

My heart I hold in my hands,
I cup it and hide it,
Only very few can see

Occasionally I give someone a piece
The first one left it on the ground,
It took up to much space for someone else's,
Tunes our he did the same to her

The second one I handed out,
Hoping not to be buned
She amounted quite a mass
Before she spoiled and threw it all in the trash

Now I had very little heart lef to give.
But a third came along, different from the rest,
Baffled a small loan was made
I went bankrupt.

So one came around
I hadn't hardly a heart to give
The chunk I did,
Was squeezed so tight
That it
Died.

So then you came back.
Lucky number three,
My last chunk of love is in your hands,
But it seems you let it fall

My love casted upon the ground
I fall to my knees,
As my heart crumbles into dust,
A chrimson stain upon the ground
I am broken

My heart in pieces
Pulled apart and broken down
I now so lie,
Heartless
To numb
To ask why
As my heart whimpers in the dark