Sip uh cup...it's like an embrace from the inside out!

We Might Have An End for Each Other

Would you let me in, one breath at a time? I cannot be more than I am so thank heavens you say I am perfect for you, me just being me. Hold my feet down when I get to high. Hold me closer when the world becomes to heavy. I have no other words to give. Good thing you don't want any else, it's my only gift! Thanks for loving this simple girl with empty hands you so wonderffully fill. Thank you for kissing those dreams and giving them flight. Thanks for, for, for, all that you give. And these are the ramblings of someone with nothing left to give. It's all in the looks, the words left unspoken, the stolen glances when you thought I wasn't there. It's all there. All I have to give.

The Wayward found a Way

The Wayward wandered, the gypsy and the vagabond, the Wayward ones. In and out of the shadows, up and down the traveled roads, in and out of light and dark as they found their way, those Wayward ones. The Wayward wandered with song in mouth and rhythm in hand, "Make a way, find a way, make a way for this One," the Wayward said. Would you know them if you saw their eyes? Would you know them if you felt their skin? Would they be ushered over the threshold finding a way in, a place to rest their head? You will find them wandering, that Wayward generation, waying on their way, a song in their mouths and rhythm in their hand. Would a word to speak calm their deepest fears, would a name to call bring them home again? So they wander, nameless, and unafraid. Over mountain, through valley, under sea to find their journey, their destiny, their piece of a world inherited from their King. "Take it back, take it back, take it all back," tthat land that has been stolen," they heard the King say. Plant your song, sow your rhythm till the trees sprout up that offer proof that the Wayward were here. And on they went, and so it goes, till all the Wayward come home again.

Just Keep Swimming

I am a communicator. Just like fish have to constantly swim to get oxygen through their gills, words are a lot like oxygen for my soul and spirit. My greatest desire is to be known and for my deepest thoughts to be understood. It might take me a lifetime, but maybe one sentence, one paragraph, song lyric, or photograph could turn on the light bulb in a dark room then I will have accomplished the art of being understood, being known, being loved. I am me. I don't aspire to be anything other that I am destined to be, which will be a feat in and of itself. You see, I want to look back at my life and think, 'What a wonderful life," and love even the bumps and bruises that I acquired along the way. This is my life, this is my story. My thoughts are vast and sometimes ridiculous, but just maybe, even in the ridiculousness, there is a small piece of the puzzle; yes, even in my ridiculousness. For anyone who is willing to read the writings of a hopeful journalist student, musician, former ballerina, and aspiring free thinker, I thank you. So ends Post #1.