*A/N* Mature thematic content such as mentions of drug use/mental illness.

It smelled like sweat and drugs when he got home. The apartment that he and his mother shared was small and dark. The lamp had fallen over, shards of glass sprinkled across the floor. His mother was passed out in the fetal position on the musty grey couch, fresh needle marks on her right arm, her white shirt stained.

Love is patient, love is kind,
It is not a word, not a mime.
Love is not a feeling, big, or small,
It's something more, if I recall.
There is no greater love than this:
What?! To die? Not give a kiss?
T'was with a kiss Christ was betrayed,
Soon before He His true love displayed.
It was on a cross that my Lord died,
T'was His love for me that pierced His side.
God sent down His only Son,
And He the victory has won.
The dove was the sign sent from above;
The sacrifice was His destiny of love.

IF YOU HAVEN'T READ EITHER GREATER LOVE OR A STRONG FAITH THEN DONT READ THIS UNTIL YOU HAVE. :D

*******For those of you who have read my short story titled Greater Love this is the story told by Jonathan. He goes into much more detail about things that went on, but then again he had more to tell. :)*******

Rain that patters not the roof,
Rain that lulls me, soothes me, too
Rain that sings a lullaby,
Rain that makes me want to cry.
Rain that makes me want to sing,
Rain finds joy in everything.
Rain that is goodly for the earth,
Rain that is moody, or full of mirth.
Rain that God gives us in His love;
Showers of blessings from above.

Edit: I wrote this to practice telling a story starting at the present and telling what happened in the past through the characters.
It also happens to be from a dream that I had a week or two ago. :) me and dreams...

There's perfect, there's normal, and then there's me.
Listen closely and I'll tell you what I mean:
Perfect wears a dress sized two,
Her little foot wears a seven shoe.
Perfect nose and perfect smile,
Eyes made to win and beguile.
Perfect body and perfect face,
Perfect hair, always in place.
Now normal tells a rather sad tale,
In perfectness does surely fail.
Messy bun and camo flip-flops,
Red plaid pajama bottoms and a pink tank-top.
Neon-green nails, painted weeks ago,
Too much makeup, putting on a show.

I am a terrible person. If I said that out loud, I would be met with scores of replies from friends who think I am just having a bad day, or being just a little insecure. But I can trust you guys to take me at my word - I am a bad person. Not in an "everyone's a sinner" kind of way, but in a truly horrible "I hurt the people around me" kind of way. The part of me that still feels like I must always tell the truth shudders a little when truth or dare comes around, and I thank my lucky stars that everybody knows me as more of a "dare" kind of gal.

Sixty-five roses in a vase by a bed,
The thirtieth birthday of a loved father-head.
A foster dad, a favorite big brother, 
A good Christian man, a true and faithful warrior. 

With Cystic Fibrosis his lungs slave away, 
The Doc said he might live to his eighteenth birthday. 
His cheerful countenance is loved by all,
Many memories are made with him to recall. 

Oh wonder of a little dove,
Cooing words of mother-love;
Sitting on your nest so near,
Guarding baby-eggs so dear.
You would die to strive
To save your eggs lives,
You hunt for their food;
In the wilds of forrest-wood.
God gave you abilities:
Instincts and agility.
A symbol of meekness,
Purity, not weakness,
Strong character, and wise,
Patient tone, gentle eyes.
If all men from you would learn,
A godly character to earn,
A countenance of love and grace;