the same place, a different scene
the same place, a different me
an older me
the same trees, a little taller
the same trees, different leaves
a newborn green
the same stones, a little smoother
the same stones, different tones
worn down, turned over
the same sky, different clouds
the same sky, different sounds
chase the pictures out
the same sun, the same shadows
the same shadows, different patterns
woven on the gravel
the same grass, the same color
(I apologize for my recent absence...if you'll read this, you'll see it's due to a 4 month semester abroad in Europe.)
To be so young.
To be entramped.
To be a strangled sappling.
I feel a cage;
Bars of youth.
How can I break away.
When I was young
The cage was big.
I did not mind cold bars.
But, now I feel
Restraining chains.
How can I break away.
I'm sure that when,
I've grown away.
I'll miss the quiet cage.
But now, all I ask is this,
How can I break away
Where do daydreams
go when they retire?
Do they nap upon my feet
waiting until I stumble over them
disguised as a russian spy,
a princess bride,
a heroine of yesterday?
Ageless and timeless
the dreams do not wither
but as of yet remain
chubby-cheeked and cheerful.
I will be nineteen years old tomorrow.
This past year has probably been the most intense year of my life... Me and myself at eighteen have been through a lot together - both brokenness and beauty. Such beauty...
Sunday came falling down too fast, crashing in upon me like Niagara Falls; a splash of cold water and ice that had the weight of large rocks. I could have prepared myself to be prepared for a month and it wouldn't have made a difference. Because no matter how prepared I was, it wasn't going to change how I felt.
Which path to take
The thin the wide
The short the long
God what path to take
“It is your will not mine”
Which path to take
The rocky to smooth
The wet the dry
God what path to take
“I will obey what you say”
Which path to take
Marriage or a Nun
Single or lay
God what path to take
“I lay my trust in you”
Mr. Andrews holds his classes in a gym room of roughly forty feet by twenty. Upon entering, you would first notice a tall, wooden compartment standing by the doorway, with an assortment of sticks, bags, short swords, and shoes all shoved into these compartments, or arranged against the left wall with no amount of orderliness. As you face either straight ahead or to the right, a wall of glass stares back at you. A small, knob-less door on the back wall leads to a scary closet that smells of old sweat where Mr.
This barn is twenty-five years old and for three years I have been pretending it belongs to me. This barn is where I spend sixty hours of every week, the place to which I devote all of my time and energy in exchange for the shelter of my beloved horses. This barn holds twelve horses and half of them have left hoofprints in my heart.
I’m sitting outside in our driveway on an old beach chair while my four-year-old brother plays in his turtle sandbox. The sun is warm, but the air is decidedly March-like—crisp and cold; the chilly kind, that gets inside you—and I’m sitting here with a hood over my head wondering what on earth I’m doing out here and how Joseph can bear having nothing on his feet. Maybe the sand is warm. Maybe he’s warmer, somehow. Maybe there’s something in us when we’re young that’s still half-full of Heaven.