You See My Glory... I Know Your Story
But GOD.... they keep asking me how? Why? What helped me? The words to the gratituitous heart yield very little to the pallet of expression. Perhaps if I wept knelt down amidst the essence of feet and oil spilled from an alabaster box? My groanings could effectively communicate. How does one turn off the thrust of the drum that is in motion? The wind of the arm that falls on the skinned percussion encasing the heart. Like sausage my heart is being processed. My heart breaks at each reflection. Simultaneously my heart flutters at the renewed mind in vitro. Why not embrace the tug on my newly transformed heart for women who look like me when.. talk like me when.... act like me when... Why bother making a video for my youngerself when my palm is her fingertips. My eyes are her eyes. My pain are her present. Now, to provide her with my provisions. What provisions she sees will help her push past her cons she is envisioning during her present. I see the lens past the hurt. I have o