I look to the Moon, hanging aloft
Among the clouds so milky soft.
How must it feel, so high above?
So chilled and bleak and void of love.
Collapsed and sunken are his eyes,
Dark and deep as the onyx skies.
As the Moon shies from the sun,
I share no love with anyone.
The Moon is alone, without affection.
In its grim face is my reflection.
Inside my heart, the longing grows,
And rots my soul, a sickly rose.
While I look beyond this cage,
I clench my fists; they shake with rage.
I desperately stare above,
Wishing to fly, free as a dove;
For release from the troubled heart I claim,
To be finally rid of the madness and shame.
Although reprieve is found in song,
To no one does my soul belong.
In music, may the pleas be spoken,
But all in vain; the heart is broken.
The Sphere returns, begins to sigh.
We are not so different, You and I.
So twisted and fractured is the White Stone.
We both have no one; We are both all alone.
There she stands
Centre stage for all to see
Tall and slender
Precariously she balances.
I reach out for her
Draw her to me
My hand skims her body
Slowly reaching her skirt.
Playful fingers find hidden areas
Delighted her legs spring forth
Displaying the very beauty
Of her delicately adorned skirt.
Gaily she dances around
Dizzily twisting and turning
In the brightness of day shading
She gently tends to my needs.
Personal ballerina takes to toes leaping
Merrily bobbing up and down
As emotional to her performance
Clouds cry a thousand tears for her.
Reaching our destination
Slightly shaken, she leans
Watches me quietly drips
Against the wall.
Reminiscent of the day's fulfillment
We acknowledge one another silently
Restful knowing we shall be
One once more.
What is it to hear a poem?
I struggle to listen when such words cut open
my head and try to make a nest out of my brain.
I DO NOT WISH TO HEAR A POEM!
My body jolts under these straps of limitation,
tightened by my ability to hear.
Why must one be limited to hear a poem?
I cast out stones towards those who care to listen.
Why don’t we be the poem?
Climb inside the mouth of a poem and
understand it’s true voice.
Be the pen kicking fiercely at the paper,
leaving behind marks of genius and creativity.
Rip open the heart of a poem and suck its
Feel a poem.
Be a poem.
Live a poem.
See words rise from the paper,
as they dance between the strings
of your heart.
Grab a hand of the message and twirl
it around your mind and smother its
meaning with praise.
Curl up inside the dot of an ‘i’.
Slide across an ‘l’ and mold it into a ‘t’.
Travel across an empty plain were stubborn
Attack black and white ideas with shades
of blue and green.
Drive a sword through their hearts and leave
them dead to what is known.
Fight a poem.
Hurt a poem.
Heal a poem.
Turn the waste of sound into
vibrant waves of belief and inspiration.
Let yourself be swept away by
imagination and surrealism.
Find your soul inside of a poem and
claim it as your own.
Bring down the fortress of structure and
make its remains into martyrs of lost cause.
Open the doors of a poem and remodel
NO! I do not want to hear a poem!
It sends pain through my soul to see the
voice of a poem silenced by the ignorant
dangers of sound.
Help yourself and plug your ears.
Visualize the words through serene images of
beauty cultured by unmatchable craft.
See a poem.
Grab a poem.
Know a poem.
Be influenced by a poem.
Learn a poem and all of its meanings.
Threaten a poem.
Scare a poem.
Stab a poem.
Teach it how to live amongst a world of vultures,
hungry for mistakes and misinterpretations.
Guide a poem into a building filled
with a million little fingers.
Like a poem.
Be touched by a poem.
Love a poem.
Show the world your insides.
Show them the words to your poem.
By different lovers I’ve been kept,
some skillful and a few inept.
I always respond, unafraid.
I rather enjoy being played.
A Spaniard picked me up one time.
His classic strumming was sublime.
Notes poured from me like a cascade.
I rather enjoy being played.
That man released me, and soon I
was picked up by a strange punk guy
who stroked me roughly. Though betrayed,
I rather enjoy being played.
My strings broke often from his touch,
yet thrilled was I by his thrum. Such
unique new tunes from me were made.
I rather enjoy being played.
His sister held me awkwardly,
but then she sang so beautifully
it mattered not my sound would fade. . .
I rather enjoy being played.
She and her brother gave me to
some plucking fools without a clue
till an artiste came to my aid.
I rather enjoy being played.
He pressed my frets, this handsome boy.
My stings were vibrating with joy.
I climaxed with his smooth glissade.
I rather enjoy being played.
With him I hope to have remained
in years to come. His love’s unfeigned.
Although I know at times he’s strayed,
I rather enjoy being played.
for the Word Play Contest of Kim Morrison
I am the spirit of satin stardust
and the antiquities of golden memories alive
I call to you from the rising warmth of the sun
and greet you in the misty morning light
I am the steady and rolling drum beat
echoing from the jagged heights above
I am the mysterious curves of the raging waters'
and the freedom birds of love
I rise above the white summer clouds
in lilting songs of grace
and roam with the western tail-winds
to take you home again
I am a Spirit of our gracious Lord God Almighty
of love hope and faith
I have come to tell
Dedicated To P.D.
For My Children
I have cried so many tears
I have laughted over the years
I have given you my all
I've watched you stumble and seen you fall
and I try'ed to help you through it all
but now your grown and on your on
I hope you remember what you've learn
and teach your children all about heaven
and how much it takes to be a parent
I'm so proud this is true i want you to know
how much i love you
As I sit in my window sill.
Relaxed no thrill.
Time goes by, but it seems the world stands still.
I sit and gaze .
By the beauty that sits in front of me.
The stars winks at me, twinkles and dance.
So magnificant I saw in watch in a trance.
The love I felt between us must be true romance.
But suddenly it fades.
It fades so quickly and with little warning.
Because within a few moments it will soon be morning.
So sadly it leaves, but leaves with a kiss of delight.
The wind whispers its goodbyes and promise to return tomorrow night.
Do you wish to taste
the succulent flower
as she grows, anxious, in the garden?
Morning’s blush arouses
her soft pink petals
and they become warm and moist with dew
A sweet musky scent fills the air
It calls to you
and you cannot resist
Her sultry aroma
holds the promise
of unabashed ecstasy
open and eager
She is ready to be exposed
You brush against her petals
and she quivers
You caress her
for she is inviting
Velvet smooth perfection
She is yours to possess
You reach for her
and take her
You hold her close against you
And for a brief moment
she is all you know
She is a prize,
to be put in her place
You display her
so others will know your worth
Sadly, she sits alone
in her vase,
withered and undesired
I'll love you like the ocean
I'll love you like the sea
I'll caress you like the salty breeze
Does caress those white-capped crests
I'll embrace you as the breaking waves
Embrace the shore with zest
I'll kiss you like the rising sun
Does kiss the sea at dawn
I'll call you like the sea bird sang
With passion, again and again
I'll raise you like the morning mist
That joins the sea to sky
I'll move you like the pale, round moon
Does move the pounding tide
I'll push you like the summer storm
That brings the sea to life
And even as in you I drown
Never did breathless trepidation feel so right
I'll love you like the ocean
I'll love you like the sea
Stands, four players.
Quarrels of foul cries, collided.
Facing each nemesis into quadrants, divided.
Individuals motivated by objectives.
Devising plans, careful detectives.
Goal to achieve the highest rank, careful steps--discriminate.
Going by the hit-list, tunnel vision, hindrances must eliminate.
Scoping intensely, measuring opponents, methodical evaluation.
Staying alert, mind assessment, sedulous investigation.
Shrill of the first struck, the red bullet--bounces.
Instant reflex, ricochet the shot, violence--denounces.
The King may bend the rules, charges swift modification.
The Pawns are summoned, critical prosecution.
The Bishop prays for the suspects, classified praises, flattery denunciation.
The Queen cradles a heart, each beat rebounds, battery probation.
Yamaha impressed me the first time I laid eyes on her glistening blond maple wood, her stylish body details, her long fretted mother-of-pearl inlay; lobed with golden keys. Her voice called to me the first time I held her in my arms. I strummed her six strings slowly in the key of G, then moved softly to D and C. All the while, I searched earnestly for her purity in sound quality and style. She was not the most beautiful in the showroom. But oh yes! She did flatter me with her musical presence. She was beautiful to me! I knew from that moment on she would be mine for eternity.
Within the hour, I took her home to meet the family. She was shy on the journey, not making a sound; perhaps due to this being her first automobile ride or simply wanting to see a world she was now a part of. Yamaha was cased in alligator leather, a brown dressing which was stylish for the day. We were both nervous as we arrived and got out of the car. My strong caressing grip on her handle assured her she wouldn’t fall and it would be alright. She knew it would be alright as I smiled at her.
I opened the door, allowing her to enter first. When in the living room, I called to everyone to come meet the newest member of the family. Dad was taken by her simple yet elegant beauty and style. Mom touched her first and she was most pleased. At that moment I realized the importance of first impressions as Mom marveled at how pretty she was. I sat down in the best chair in the living room while Mom listed to Yamaha talk and I sang a popular country love song. I was pleased with the family acquaintance to Yamaha. It was evident she had become a part of the family.
The first few weeks, I couldn’t keep Yamaha out of my arms. I longed to be with her every minute of the day. In my eye, she made me smile by just gazing upon her. I fumbled with her in those beginning days. She ignored my elementary attempts at refinery and permitted me the time to catch up to her mastery rather than bow down to my level. Like any two lovers, both must reach to the need of the other. Only then is love truly in harmony.
Today, Yamaha is not the young glistening blond I held in my arms some thirty years removed. Her wood has been scared by my love to play her. She has received countless face lifts which cover her tainted mother-of-pearl. Her brown leather case dress stands in need of a seamstress care. But as with all things having been learned through love, we now make beautiful music together. She is my treasure, a light into my soul's well. She amplifies my inner being. As I perform, she is glorified. We have grown old together,and gotten better in time. I still hold her in my arms day by day as this lover has risen to her grace and expectations. She is my treasure for a life time.
The frozen senses
The frozen senses, lives again
With a sunshine of hope
Over it, making each pain
Active again, and the fears door ope.
The twinkling dreams which are
Ready for show, the blushing delights
Reluctant, all the years near and far
And all the lows and heights.
Zeniths of glories, ready
To motivate, the disasters of past
Ready to teach, the victories steady,
Failures fast, all are ready to teach at last.
Since I was a boy I have known of her . I've dreamed of her in my fantasies , I have visioned you in my thoughts.Never knowing why or how or
where she came from, Just she was there .Not ever did I see her face ,but I've known all the while of her beautiful smile. Eyes of an Angel , I can
see all the way to her soul. Hair that flows over her shoulders like a waterfall. . Just a dream in my head , my imagination gone wild , but I have
always known she would be mine one day , A goddess I will cherrish as my Queen and love her with all my heart. Spoil her with gifts and
treasures, what ever she likes .The girl of my dreams I have honestly seen .I have spoken to her and it is exactly as it was suppose to be . She's in
love with me. Oh and she is the prettiest thing, this woman thats always been in my dreams .I was put here to meet her and she to meet me . I have
always been in her dreams ,that's what she's been telling me . A match made in Heaven is what she claims, a love forever , a happiness for life , a
Joy in our hearts that makes our lives worth living. Every since I was a boy I have known her. This woman of my dreams.
Somebody, please find me;
Here I am hiding.
I am the words,
The poet's handwriting;
Am I dead or dying.
©2014 Honestly JT
Experiencing many different emotions, it is shocking to my soul. Such an intense attraction drawing me in, surprising I am complete as a whole.
Finally full and complete within, a satisfation I've never experienced before. Finally someone able to find the hidden key, the only key that can unlock my safty door.
Gratified in every way possible, he has broken through the barrier I've been hiding behind for years. Complete in life and in love, finally able to let go of all my fears.
With a smile on my face and happiness in my heart, my dream has come true. He is my definition of perfect, from day one, my heart and head just knew.
He leads me through many exciting adventures, packed full of pleasant surprises. Everyday he gives me something new, the intensity level constantly rises.
As the relationship continues, the emotions get more intense. Surprising me every chance he gets, my suspense level balances on the fence.
It hit me like a tons of bricks, how fast I needed what he had to offer. His eyes, his touch, his love and charm, made me a little softer.
Everyday I look forward to where this will lead, but I am excited as a couple what we have become. Enjoying every moment as it's our very first, my heart constantly beats like a drum.
We have been through many trials and tribulations, with every memory I keep on replay. DeShane, you are the one meant for me, in my mind, in my heart and in my soul, is where I want you to stay!
What Makes A Man
Is it his virtures of lifes love,
Or his moralistic meaning thereof.
For each action of modesty,
Love should be a feeling of honesty.
Yet still he toils in life like a fool,
Using his body as an evil tool.
He motiveates centers around lust,
Using kindness he turns love to dust.
Is a relationship his compassions turn,
Towards the habits he's learned.
His love towards she,
Never turns in a directionb of reality.
But yes he claims to be a man,
Then when love comes he refuses to stand.
Still even though his physique portrays,
Mnaly parts his behavioral love say's...
Oh, ever flowing pen
I've grown cognizant
You, my only comforting friend,
Taking me adrift
Waves of the forbidden sea
Venturing into territory unmarked,
That offers a soothing melody
Caressing, permeates tranquility
As you rock my restless mind
Into a delusional bliss
Unspoken words that dance
With excitement upon my paper
The Honor of Love
Comes from within a soul at peace,
Its measure of balance is strengthened with increase.
Love bores its respect from honor,
And breeds that passion between loes valor.
The honor of love is the truth that leads,
A person with thought not lust's greeds.
For greed brings pain and sadness,
Just as sorrow comforts ones madness.
The honor of love makes a feeling strong,
Not faking its passion and teasing a wrong.
Just as one feels the respect love brings,
So shall that honor of love will forever sing..
Anticipation whispers in my ear
And tells me of the splendors yet to be
Awakes feelings to my heart denied
She nestles in the deepest part of me
Anticipation wakes my heart to dream
She graces me with visions that excite
As I await to bathe in passion’s stream
She makes my body quiver with delight
Her promised pleasures do fulfillment find
For she has taught me unashamed to lie
And revel in caresses unconfined
Unfettered now to greater heights to fly
Anticipation, you have gifted me
With sweetest taste of love’s eternity
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Trying to come down a mountain you've already conquered is the true test, and it's a hard one.
Like pouring cheap sanitizer
over your bloody hands.
The 99.99 that it may kill will not eliminate the painful little hundreth percent of pain that still stands.
But it is necessary.
I can see parts of my past like jagged rocks I've already placed my feet upon once. They remind me of all the times I slipped up cut myself with such failure I never thought I'd move on from. I slide down the mountain's side, hoping that if I fall forward I will be caught by a cloud filled with the heaviness of my old pride. Reminiscing on a cumulus crime trying to piece together where I made the mistake in believing being selfish would ever put me on cloud nine.
It can no longer hold me
like flimsy caution tape failing to hold an overwhelming riot at bay
and down I go with the rain precipitating all my pain away.
At 6'4, my height is pretty easy to see
my mind is pretty difficult to read
And my beliefs are even harder to understand.
At times I feel having the word 'susceptible' tattooed across my chest would be fitting for me
just so I could be understood by my fellow man.
I heard that 90% of human interaction is nonverbal so
if I could, without a word I would speak volumes upon volumes of my autobiography and just live the rest of my life shirtless
So that even to the passing stranger, my life story they could comprehend.
Vulnerability at it's finest.
I learn from experience.
After a long fall, I land close to rock bottom.
The temptation to give up always seems to make camp in front of the exit of freedom.
I can see two male rams clashing their brains together while making a thunderous noise; the most accurate depiction of brainstorming I've ever witnessed, and an easy way to see that staying stuck at the bottom is a choice.
There is always something new to learn.
Something to struggle with up and down the mountain.
What we must learn is to not be ashamed of our struggles, and to instead show how we are victorious through the renewed life we live.
Frightened; scared; worrisome, that's how I am..
Not that I am so ****ed up or too bad..
Rather I am caring so much...
Or maybe I have experienced too much..
I built up walls to protect myself...
I restricted myself to rules and regulations..
I defined and structured ways to be in control..
I followed a pattern to avoid dominion...
Maybe because of how I have grew up..
Maybe because of how the persons treated me..
Maybe because of how situations challenge me..
Maybe because of actual experience..
True, I am almost exactly like that..
Few have taken the time and effort to discover me..
Behind those smiles are hidden pains to burst..
Behind those silence are quiet tears waiting to break..
Behind those hugs are yearnings of affection.
Behind those compositions are me: myself...
Yet, I have always been hopeful...
Always holding on...
Not that of pretentions.
Nor to give good impression..
Rather, It is because of that burning faith..
It is because of that selfless love...
Didn't I laugh hard until I'm teary eyed..
Didn't I sing so much until my voice hoarse..
Didn't I eat so much that I burp..
Didn't I given so much that I'm remembered...
Didn't I still love so much that I don't expect any returns..
I lie to protect people I love..
I break rules to get closer to what I want..
I work hard to attain my dreams...
I try to be the happy me to me others happy..
I am living my life the way I know right..
I made mistakes and even failed..
but, I rejoice to acknowledge these didn't stop me..
These didn't lead me to quit..
I rise up..
I stood up..
I am still here..
God, helped me through it all..
A pen rests unreservedly in my lips
Another embraced behind my ear
A ream of paper at peace on my lap
And ink smudges consume my fingers
My perception beyond physicality
Mystical enchanters in chorus
Momentaneous fantasies in flesh
And the artistry streams
In a foxtrot my pen whirls
Across the ballroom of parchment
Virginal ink smears
And the gala commences
Unbeknownst of my environs
Enveloped passionately within my illusions
Adventures given essence
And pressed into a colloquy
Not infamous is my name
Nor are my narrations published
But a dream I live for
And a tale to be told
The phrase "Music to my ears" has been injected toward the
wrong part of my body, and most unpleasantly personified.
There is a record player that I let skip and scratch on purpose, hearing
colorful sound of life back when truth kept us both inside the lines.
I thought order was helping me draw closer to you, while you began on the next
page without me. The needle digs it's way into my ape-shaped forearm.
I'm directed by the guitar string shaped veins
that only play notes in the keys of D# E# A# F# and the sharp sounds pierce
my perception to the point I can hardly hear your voice anymore.
At times, listening to the same old sad song on repeat makes me think
that I am just an old soul getting repeatedly tossed around in God's
big barrel of human paradox. "Lord what was I made for? Surely it wasn't
to repeat the mistakes of my forefathers, because I'm certain I am the
only one you molded with forearms so large, that the record got lost
and forgot how to spin in circles. Music is all about art, and art all about
perception. Perception has nothing to do with your eyesight, and
you use your ears to envision the painting on a blank canvas before picking
anything else up but sound waves. I drive myself crazy sometimes when
I think that my inspiration is speeding away from me in the
opposite lane, but I didn't even ask for directions. Mostly because I'm a man,
a stubborn one at that, and I always think I know where I'm going.
But this time, I swear I had gotten the map right. So I transformed my open
hands into tight fists to make music burst out of my arms, and the needle went
faster and faster until it broke off, and the high pitched vibration
disintegrated the steel into my own blood. I blame myself for letting this
be the first time to let myself draw some air into my body. A surgery of
scalpels cutting into my physical, and an orchestral symphony of sutures,
threading my life back together again. My blue blood turns crimson as it kisses the air.
Why do we associate the color red with life and vibrancy, when it clearly shows that we are letting our own blood run down our arms? Why do so many women where red lipstick; the kind that sticks to your collar, screaming to your wife that you clearly sinned?
Why do we see sin so clearly; transparent enough for others to correct us before we really we even grasp the desire to fix ourselves? AND WHY IN THE WORLD IS THIS MUSIC PLAYING SO LOUDLY NOW; when my needle broke off into my body a long time ago, and I can hardly hear you anymore.
Good thing my life's song still isn't completely written yet. Let's add a more positive climax to this. One drawn in harmony.
Take everything out of me,
& on the days i’m not wanted,
I am left emptied
all of the way out.
A pleasant ‘medicine’ to show others just how good I make you feel, & how good I taste.
I’d be lying to say that hearing those words doesn’t make me spring right back up even in a setting as disintegrating as this.
I’m still here, ready to break off a piece of plastic from my narrow body for you.
It is you after all. I’d do it if I had too.
But, you confuse me.
You keep my head lifted & it keeps you entertained.
I like it, kind of. It’s like we’re getting to know each other’s touch, and see similar smiles to those of when we first met.
This makes it easier not to think too much about how I’m handled.
You’ve never treated me this way.
I’ve gotten my big head stuck before by trying to fill myself up with much more than you needed,
but this feeling of loneliness by you is unfamiliar.
I love you, I say. I love you, I show.
You love me, you say. You love me, I believe.
I hate the feeling of feeling cheap. You told me that I was especially manufactured for someone of your taste, & I believe every word of that.
Stop pressing my head down into my stomach, please.
I’m starting to get sick of not seeing everything that kept me full of your every desire to see me smile.
I could never be naive enough to say that I can fulfill who you are,
because I have a purpose that involves much more than
going up and down, emptying my insides with temporary dissolving gestures.
But I know I can share with you
the essence of being the someone who treats you as good as the planets you can’t see.
So align me inside the atmosphere of your care, & I’ll pick you up before you can say, “deSpenser”
THERE IS A TIME WHEN THE TREES SANG THEIR OWN MELODY THE FLOWERS SPRAY THEIR OWN FRAGRANCE.
THE MOON AND THE STARS ARE IN HARMONY WITH ONE ANOTHER THE SUN KISSES THE DAYLIGHT.
OH HOW SWEET IT IS BUT NOW THE THUNDERSTORM COMES LIKE A RUSH THROUGH YOUR VEINS.
SOMETHING LIKE A FIRE IN DISGUISE THE THUNDER IS KNOCKIN AND THE RAIN IS ROCKIN.
THEN THE CLOUDS GATHER TOGETHER TO LET OUT SOME STEAM IT SEEMS AS IF IT IS ONLY A DREAM.
NOW THE SUN CRACKS THROUGH THE SKY TO LET US KNOW THAT THE STORM HAS PASSED ON.
THE AFTER SCENT IS SO SWEET TO MY NOSE LIKE A ROSE.
OH HOW PRECIOUS IT IS TO ME.
Dear Soap Bubble,
in an air-light reflection
of the ephemeral beauty
of this world
rumbling inside the anima
of a tiny simple
I shall enjoy thy sight
Shall I live in fear
for you not to burst
Shall I be the wind
to blow tenderly
directing thy path
Thy shelter shall I be
I surrender myself to thee
Yiddy awdy those ticks are here to stay.
Here and there but everywhere astray.
Tick tack I am going to laugh at that.
On the Moon or on the Sun I have sat.
Jump started or kick started my day has begun.
I’m holding a life of lifetimes on the go or run.
Yicky yacky just what is it that I am to do?
Run all over the galaxies in search of you?
Shucks you mucks, I’d do it all over again.
But from time to time you stop when I begin.
It’s a life of life’s bundling into one row.
Yet it is step by step in which it can grow.
© Copyright: Ann Rich 2007
I am hunger for his passion therefore for him to hug and kiss me. I will reciprocate. A
yearning desire to embrace and kiss him. A torch with burning passion that will
never be extinguished until he loves me unconditionally, then make passionate love
This feeling buried under my skin when love hits me makes me itch like a fein for
dope I dont know how to explain the things that love will have you doing
somethings become to deep so I ask my self how deep is love some times it can
have you on a cloud like your floating so easy to bring you down like walls in a
building being demolished so what can love bring you in this world but pain mistrust
jealousy and hate but they say love is like chocolate sweet rich good satisfying or
could it be me as I watch those in love hold hands dancing to the tunes that loving
someone brings their soul are satisfied their smiles reveal love their laughs reveal
lust so I again ask myself is it me maybe those who have tried to love me I have
broken them to the point that love didnt matter anymore am I that blind that I cant
see love in front of me tyrone said loving me was harder than predicting the
weather laughing as I dug deeper into his soul eating his love feeding my lust with
his feelings so how deep is love deeper then I have been digging detroying lives as
I moved on to the next playing as I loved to love those who were loving me they
were blind to see the vixen as she came to seek and detroy love so how deep is
love I use to believe love was a gift but to love does not mean love I AM the VIXEN
OF LOVE I AM the VIXEN OF LUST I love to lust AND LUST LOVES TO LOVE ME WE ARE
ONE thats how deep my love goes
Alcoholic,rageaholic,another drug addiction consumed by depression,Its just a
fraction of what this generation faces these days;in denial or torn in the middle of
silence or confession.Confusion,rebellion,anger and neglect,A huge percentage of
the worlds youth is another lost soul held hostage by self rightousness and there
salvation it effects.Abandonment,fear,emptiness,trapped and alone;Enemies to self-
destruct ones life is what so many are known to be in fact a walking bag of
bones.From neglect brings emptiness;Emptiness results in feeling alone,A heart and
soul running on the edge of confusion which in many ways can go wrong.Another
statistic on the news again,I pray for them to all find Jesus,Hes our Savior,our
God,the beginning and the end. By Tina Myers 11/06