It was Wednesday four times last month,
my feet are on the world my hands are in the sky... "The sheep spends its live fearing being eaten by the wolf only to be slaughtered by the shepherd". What a way to die.

I miss the crowds hanging around the busker at the liquor store, the musician  pounding out a rhythm, the crowd moving and shaking, the air fills with vibrations.
I roll up my sleeves to humbly dig in the dirt, for music claims my life's blood.
  
Forget about the grief and the losing hand we are holding, even with a royal Flush the house will always win.

Hi, sorry but I forgot your name, I'm the neighbour that lives above you. Could you please stop yelling at your wife...   this isn't the 50's anymore.

Why do you say "jumping jesus christ" do you think he was hopping around Nazareth handing out fishes and loaves  like  some bloodless Easter bunny.

Always, my heart is in my hand, it just slipped off my sleeve, my love strokes it while it lay in my palms.
My mother died in pain but peace, on her deathbed she always felt better when I read to her her favorite psalms.