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| polka dots and rain drops
silly thoughts that are sad
i didn't mean to say anything
you would infer was bad.
polka dots and silly thoughts
the rain's been coming down all day
it makes me scared to drive, i want to stay inside
in Flag it's supposed to snow til may.
rain drops and polka dots
the laundry is being done
my sheets and shirts are getting washed
and soon i'll be having fun
the rain's not cold, the snow's not all come, and my thought's range between two places....
rain drops, and polka dots, and silly thoughts
are sort of sad, with th exception of plka dots, but in the end i feel glad
and i suppose that's a good thing cause, of each, i have lots. | | |
| Embarrasment eases it's way into you, as I would assume a knife would. In it goes, without so much as a hessitation. I do not ssy so to be clever, or negative. Mearly because the natural color of embarrasment is that, generally of the fluid escaping a knife wound. In fact, it's the same thing upon taking away the inward character of the first and the leaking outward of the latter. Is it not all blood? So, here we all can say we've stepped into situations, unfathomable, or better in this sence, unexpected. Such an occasion would not be viewed as "good" if there proved in hindsight to be an agressor, and more unfortunatly, a victim. Yet with unfamiliarity one should throw themslves out, amongst new prospects and others with the same expectation laid upon them, as long as the risk of the last scenario is not present. Who is to say the results will be considered "good." In all of this, One does not move. There is only one thing I can surmise, and that is that in spite of logic, science, and fate there is One who holds and knows the world as His own. My insides be the color of His choosing, better yet, the specific hue His own and personal choice. What fantastic good He remains, unembarrased and never to be scarred. There's more to this than could be known, like stumbling in the daylight, though illuminated still blood translates imperfection. even in sight. | | |
| It has been some time. But, in loneliness it's interesting where a person goes. Little fuzzies are attracted to my microwave. Tomorrow classes begin with some Northland Christian Assembly in the later hours. We'll see what a difficulty college is. Insert some amount of fear and sadness here. Followed sequentially by the ressurance that never am I completely and utterly alone. There is only One always with me, yet Him being enough for all those in the past... of what great importance am I that He could not also overly meet and surpass my few needs and many desires. How people are funny. How individuals do and do not grow and mature. How silly people can be. I suppose that has something to do with where a person's special interest comes from. Only so many people meant to be encountered in one existance. Comfort does play some roll, however who woulldn't deny that on occasion the thing or past time or experience they enjoy most is more than spending the effort to forge something false. In no way do I consider myself to have met anyone I can truely relate with. I pray that this changes, and does so very soon.
i'm looking at a wonderfull picture of one i miss ever so dearly. | | |
| Ohhh, and looking now
on that seen so clearly when looking o'r the shoulder
less the blur more the thoughts of lost and gain!
the way i've been sewn the way i've been mended
(you fit into, ohh well, you did fit into)
Ohhh, in stepping away
has there been a wash of the way it's run?
don't feel, please, it's too much for us to...
Where am i. | | |
| The man sat and wait for the discovery soon impending. His mind thundered devious thoughts, those through which one finds satan most convencing. But who was to say that in night or presence of day from where this poor old man's tourment came? He sat all alone, though solitude not his worry, constantly struggling, living in confused fear of God's fury. The issue at hand with the dear old man is undiagnosable, it's a disease spawned from living, too long in this trash... There's no way to breathe, in fact his come in short raspy gasps, he resoned it from all the smoking perhaps. Utterly alone, and inwardly focused he'll sit and he'll wonder, search for his purpose. I feel such a loss for the old man, he's alienated those around him, but for reasons i try hard to understand. It isn't as though anyone's worse off as him. His life is one ruined, horribly flawed, and grim. His soul redeemed? Perhaps, but to what end? Until death he's found living purgatory sent. "Such an odd thing that when life brings this delima that one would continue try so despratly to be lost. Seems as though, He'd say "Lord I give you my cross." and get up, and dust off, and move on." The neighbors assumed. I look back and decide that all in his life assumed far too much, and extended far to little. Such a fraile man, pail in face, body, and hands only his legs slightly tanned and grey wisps of smoke always present... The circumstances at hand where visable in two ways, see the man on the porch and watch as he looks the otherway. And then there's the man, looking different directions, old in one reguard and so afraid. What has happened? Well, he continues to act the very very same. Many would call him different, attractive in a dark way. Change he wants, and misery, and failure he sees... so he stays where he is, not moving up, to drunk in himself to leave his seat. His tallent, his beauty aren't wasted but that's what he sees. If you ever meet him you'd know exactly of what i speak, the poor self-loathing yet self-serving man. Not lost, only waiting for the discovery, which i pray Jesus is soon impending. | | |
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