It’s not everyday
That you meet someone
Who’d change the way
You perceive the world

It’s not everyday
That you meet someone
Who’d very slowly
Break down your walls
Like how a baby slowly learns to crawl

It’s not everyday
That you meet someone
Who’d make your life
Seem so interesting
Talk to you from morning till night
About your past, present, and even your future.

It’s not everyday
That you meet someone
Whom you could never stop talking to
Because even when the world around you is chaotic
You know that in that person
There is only peace and happiness
And love

It’s not everyday
That you meet someone
Who’d leave
As easily as how they came
As if nothing ever happened between you two
As if their absence is nothing to you
And despite all the pain
Despite all the tears
Despite all the months you spent
Thinking of what went wrong
You choose to love
Because what else can you do
When you’ve met the one
And they let go of you?

I don't call on trouble, trouble calls on me;
I don't invite it through my door, it's got it's own house key.

Trouble knows my number, it follows in my wake;
at night it whispers in my ear, "it's all a big mistake".

I've learned a lot of lessons, with trouble by my side;
no point in second guessing, there's nowhere left to hide.

There seems no end to troubled times, but count it all illusion
troubles been a dear old friend, and this is my conclusion.

With a good old bud like trouble, there's trouble in the hood;
but I can trust that God is workin' everything for good.

My past lies
  like a deep
    still lake,
a record of
all my mistakes
swimming
  within its soul
& I want to burn
them all, but
   how do you
take a flame to
water?
it just stays,
    forms ripples,
sometimes small,
    sometimes
biblical, all I can
   do is wait for
drought, for
  clouds to move
& sun to come
    out; the day
I will wake
   & not see a lake
but a clean slate

What is our life? The play of passion.
Our mirth? The music of division:
Our mothers’ wombs the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for life’s short comedy.
The earth the stage; Heaven the spectator is,
Who sits and views whosoe’er doth act amiss.
The graves which hide us from the scorching sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus playing post we to our latest rest,
And then we die in earnest, not in jest.