Spring’s blooming forsythia,
with its yellow branches reaching
up and out,
is a burning bush
commanding attention.
But what if this bush had been cut back
with pruning shears—shaped into a neat
square, its brightness restrained?
As if the one who revealed his glory
on the mountain could be tamed,
and his words trimmed down to be less
wild and demanding.
Confession by Kaitlyn Newberry
Flesh torn from muscle, muscle from bone. Scratched and scabbed, broken and bloody I approach you. Old scars cover skin and new ones form over old. Crippled I crawl to you; Brui...
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A Letter to a Younger Me by Kaylee Dahl
I must tell you -there is a big world out there,and you will wonder and wish to see it. But there will come a time whenyou see the little corner of the worldin which you spend most of you...
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