Days on end,sitting in a room full of people.Not indulging in anyone but myself.Why would i?No one here knows me or cares to try.endless days."I won't forget"I say with my head flooded with thoughts.thoughts of not being enough,not having enough material items,and not giving enough.though i try to be the best version of myself, the truth is i'm a replica of my parents.Another day.Living.Not for myself.And not as myself.
Stars litter the sky.Different sizes, shapes and temperatures,Though all of them are burning balls of fire,they are so loved.I feel as though stars are the flowers of the sky.everywhere, different, beautiful, and praised.except burning at anywhere from 3,000 K- 30,000 K degrees.and they are adored.searched for.bought.sold.And viewed in the best light.Seen as kisses of heaven.i want to be seen, as beautifully as the stars.i want to be admired,yearned for,
What am I worth?A dollar?A quarter?A penny?Lately this question has been lingering uninvited.Am I worthy of your love?Am I worthy of any love?I used to seek answers from the one "up above"Now I look within to see that I am nothing.My whole life I've been running.Running from pain, hurt, and loss.And I've never been fast enough.So my backup plan was look strong.I couldn't do that either.I always had to beg,Beg to be held and beg to be comforted.
Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave,Let me once know.I sought thee in a secret cave,And ask'd, if Peace were there,A hollow wind did seem to answer, No:Go seek elsewhere.I did; and going did a rainbow note:Surely, thought I,This is the lace of Peace's coat:I will search out the matter.But while I looked the clouds immediatelyDid break and scatter.Then went I to a garden and did spyA gallant flower,The crown-imperial: Sure, said I,
Nature -- the Gentlest Mother is,Impatient of no Child --The feeblest -- or the waywardest --Her Admonition mild --In Forest -- and the Hill --By Traveller -- be heard --Restraining Rampant Squirrel --Or too impetuous Bird --How fair Her Conversation --A Summer Afternoon --Her Household -- Her Assembly --And when the Sun go down --Her Voice among the AislesIncite the timid prayerOf the minutest Cricket --The most unworthy Flower --
If faithful souls be alike glorifiedAs angels, then my fathers soul doth see,And adds this even to full felicity,That valiantly I hells wide mouth o'erstride:But if our minds to these souls be descriedBy circumstances, and by signs that beApparent in us, not immediately,How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried?They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn,And vile blasphemous conjurers to callOn Jesus name, and PharisaicalDissemblers feigne devotion. Then turn,O pensive soul, to God, for he knows bestThy true grief, for he put it in my breast.