There were clouds in her eyes,
From dreams she longed to share.
But instead rain fell from her open skies,
In rolling drops called tears.
She held on to all her dreams, for fear,
That no one would ever really steer,
Their planes into her stormy life to see,
Her land, her skies, or her deep blue sea.
When she once opened up herself to show
The world she had let inside her grow,
The ships and planes all turned away.
All cowards, fearful of a little rain.
However, over time it all evaporated.
That lonely rain got cloaked.
By plane's that were wreaked,
And their black puffs of smoke.
Her eyes no longer held that thunderstorm.
But instead they have changed form.
Now behind her eyes rests a burning forest,
That engulfs everything with an ember- a promise.
She isn't that fearful girl anymore,
Who wanted people to come in and explore.
Now, instead, she is a raging, flowing wildfire,
Who will never again cry
For those who run from her attire.

I pledge allegiance
to my heart
to live unafraid
in a world apart
in a dimension of fear
to have hope and love
in times where I tear
to rise up above

I pledge allegiance
to my heart
to let it rule
or tear apart
for of it I have fear
to lose hope and love
but i'll not shed a tear
but wait for attention from above

If you grow the flower
Of the holy spirit
You are a gardener

Your tongue was a leash, and it had held me captive for far too long.

Writing is much more than just spelling out words in clear sentences, or making sure you have correct punctuation. It's about creating something out of little more than wisps of thoughts and feelings. It's like, stitching a sweater with a dull needle and constantly drawing blood from pricking yourself accidentally with it. It's hard and brutal and your fingers or hand eventually become numb from the strain of it. But then... When you think your grip is forever stuck in the form of a pencil gripper, or your hand's are too ****** from the long task of stitching new life into something... you see what lays before you- a beautiful sweater, or perhaps a well thought out paragraph- and you realize it was entirely worth it. You finally understand the concept of working for something. You now know that when you have to claw and bleed your way to something, it becomes more precious to you. That fighting for something is infinitely more satisfying than anything else. And that, my fellow reader, is why writing is so amazing. We get to bleed for something that's actually worth giving everything up for. We get to live and create life through it. Writing is beautiful, but it is also the most terrifying thing anyone who does it can do. It's leaving yourself open and vulnerable to everyone. The best way I could possibly explain it you would be to say this: Writing is like falling in love; scary, stunning, difficult, amazing, big sweeping gestures, and falling from a plane... but it's worth it.