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Literature Text
The light upstairs is a normal light
Shining bright
Giving clarity to us to see in the hall
So that we wouldn't trip and fall
But what if that light was something more?
Not just something so we can see the floor?
Maybe that light is our own little sun?
Only to be turned off when we're done?
Or maybe an angel pure and true?
Who only wants to guide and protect you?
But, what if the light is God himself?
To be with you and everyone else?
To comfort and hold
Care for and love
All His awesome blessings raining down like a dove?
Nice to know the possibilities are there
The strange beauty of the light upstairs
Literature
Home.
Home.
As a kid, my house was noisy. At least.. that was one way to put it.
You could here the loud pangs of the pots and pans from the kitchen while my mother was cooking dinner.
You could hear the slow but steady melody of my sister tickling the ivories on her piano, but most of the time battering the keys indignantly, because she couldn't quite get the right notes.
You could hear the the resilience of my brothers basketball slamming the pavement; even from the inside of the house.
You could hear the ear piercing creaking sounds my cousins made when they scampered up the stairs.
All that and more.
I craved a place where I could sit for hour
Literature
A Haiku
Light well past Midnight
full moon glow, lamp post bright, or
Netflix Marathon
Literature
Ungrateful
It’s hard to be grateful for what you have,
When you’re stuck thinking about what you don’t.
So many people wish for material things,
New things,
Items that will make them feel fulfilled.
I don’t care about that stuff
Most of the time.
It’s hard to be grateful for what you have,
When all you can think about is what you don’t.
My sanity,
Some clarity,
Maybe some antidepressants,
Silence, real silence,
where even the voice in my head shuts up.
It’s hard to be grateful for what you have,
When the thought of what you don’t consumes you.
Someone to understand me,
Some way to understand myself.
But I
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