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An HundredfoldEvery night I lie awake, and think of all the things that take, a moment to internalize, a brief chance to conceptualize, all the things I didn't do, and all the things I DID see through.
A moment here, a moment there, it all comes back to when and where, I made my mind and my resolve to all the problems I would solve.
Keep your faith, just be strong, do your best, you can't go wrong.
These daily quotes can seem cliche, or boring for an average day.
but hearing these redundant lessons, can keep heaven close, and make deep impressions, that can guide us through this rock strewn life, and keep our trials free of strife.
What does it mean? how do I know? why bother trying? where do I go?
How do I find the truth amongst this? how deep must I dig, how long must I sift?
Patience is a virtue, sometimes wants need to be shelved, the hardest part about it though, is doing it yourself.
Try alone, you'll never win, the debt you owe is great, if fairness takes it's toll on you, it's already too la
The world . . . adrift in space, hanging amid a vast array of celestial bodies. In an endless circuit, the planets drift around the sun, like a clock ticking off the years. For millennia the people on the surface have observed the heavens in wide-eyed wonder as the sparkling sea of stars swirled about them. Longing for understanding, but unable to touch it any more than they can touch the stars, men wax old. They do not know as they struggle to understand the stories written in the sky that their author has written other books. They look steadfastly into the heart of heaven for answers, not knowing that, should they ask, heaven will place the answers in their own hearts. Such is the foolishness of men; but, there exists wisdom for those who will seek.
I Drew You a PictureMany years ago when I was small,
I drew a picture.
Mostly of scribles and blobs of color, but I wanted to give it to the Lord.
I was told you do nice things to people you love.
Drawing picture was one of the ways my five year old mind could think of.
Once I was done I had a problem,
how do I get the drawing to heaven?
Couple of crazy ideas came to mind,
Mailing it to his house,
But the mail truck can't fly.
Getting on an airplane and throw it out the window by heaven,
gravity would pull it down to the ground and then he couldn't read it.
Tie a balloon to it and send it up,
what if the balloon missed.
When I got old my ghost would grab it and give it to him,
Ghosts can't grab paper.
I finally got on my knees and prayed,
"I drew you a picture, I hope you can see it."
A Healing HeartInbetween whole and broken,
a healing heart understands.
It knows joy, pain, hope, and loneliness.
It knows how to comfort and how to endure.
It knows that wounds and pain do not last.
It knows how to truely smile with pure joy.
It knows that bandaids are better than scars,
bandaids show that yes it is hurt but it will heal.
HomeAs I trod upon American soil
To seek out my lowly other,
There stood in midst a man in turmoil
To what appeared a trodden loner.
"Why sittest thou alone?
Is there not one that will sit with thee?"
With a saddened groan
The man spoke to me,
"I have no other to call my friend
No hand to offer or to lend.
For succor I ask no one can send
My broken heart cannot mend."
With my hand upon him I voiced,
"I know not which path ye partook
Neither things which were of thy choice,
All I ask is for ye to simply look."
"I know of a place better than this
Where infinities can reside,
Follow me in a life of peace and bliss
That only this comes deep from inside."
The man retorted, "How knowest these things?
I am but a man who is all alone."
I looked into his eyes and said with such ease,
"My brother... I left my home, so that I can bring you Home."
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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