If I could, I'd steal a star
I'd pick it from the night sky.
The very first one that caught my eye
and I'd bring it to you in a jar so that you could hold a marvel.

If I could, I'd tame the power of the sun
So that you would never be afraid of the dark.
So that you could feel the lights march
and be guarded while I'm gone.

If I could, I'd put a cloud in a bowl
So you always have somewhere to hide your secrets.
And when you want to cry, the cloud will rain
and take your sadness away.

But what of warm winter,
where the grass hasn't a chance
to whiter and die,
like the rest of us,
where a single meadow wildflower,
grows with wavering courage beneath
the thin, fretting frost.

Not yet cold enough
for it to finally go along,
with the birds and my father,
yet suffering so that the chill,
Oh, that frightful chill,
penetrates the very cells that
allow it to carry on.

And what of the wayward wanderer
Treading without direction,
with spirit breaking and
eyes heavy with knowing,
mind numb as their fingers,
lumbering (and) without knowing,
crushing its perseverance.

How can one be simultaneously emotionally barren yet still feel?
When it all comes to a crescendo and the ****** is resolved
I find a sweet release coupled with a bitter after taste
As the fascinating flavor remains constant on my tongue
I try to release, to interpret, to feel, to taste normally
To rid my tongue, my heart, of this inevitable condiment
Yet it remains, it lingers, as thorn in my neck

To remind me of the days of frolicking in the garden
And of being the one red rose in a field of weeds
But pity did I know, that my leaves fell, my petals became discolored, and my stem leaned to a side
And soon I too was encompassed in weeds
Pity did I know, that all the weeds I saw before, were once roses
How ironic
And I join them as another arises
One that started as a suspicious bud
Yet it blossomed unbothered
And became a beautiful white rose, in a field of weeds.

                   The cross
                   Upon whi
                   Ch my life
                   Got saved
Nailed and crucified for my salv
Ation,I still wonder why becaus
E I don't think I deserve that m
                    Uch sacrif
                    Ice but I r
                    Ealise it w
                    As    grace
                    That made
                    Me worthy
                    Of such gr
                    Eat love an
                    D favour.I;
                    shall forev
                    er rejoice.

It is often forgot, or not
At all thought of, but I
Wonder if you haven’t
Heard the tale of how
Time loves the little?

He took dust and spun,
Violently he did run with
This tiny ball of fun. So
Slow was the sprout, so
Subtle the route but not
One moment did Time
Not sing so happily of.

He sings of you how he
Sang the progression of
Dust to Earth. My friend,
You are so small. Not
Unlike a particle flying
Through the cosmos,
Guided by Time and
Gravity, on the journey
To becoming a planet.

what happened?
Where did it go?
I had a gift to write things I didn't totally loathe.
I could write about being dead or sad and it didn't totally blow..
Or I would record my ideas,
and people wouldn't laugh like hyenas.

I don't know what to do;
I can't just get super ****** and pretend I'm Poe.
I just can't write anymore, I don't know..
Please help me end this time of pain;
please help me write something that isn't lame.

A little sky is changing,
Tinge of grey on blue,
But the clouds are on my mind, now,
I leave the storm to you.
A little sky may thrash and fight,
And your boat may toss and tip,
But the sun must rise over all bad nights,
And so we'll right the ship.