Love.
It's such a hard thing. To truly love someone is to enter into a most vulnerable estate; inviting terrible danger. But I have been to the place of isolation, and I have hidden behind its tall, brick walls. To truly know love is a risk worth taking. A risk that I wish I would take more often, fore "if I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal." (1 Corinthians 13:1)
A sister of mine wrote this poem and I thought it was pretty spectacular. It's called Little Baby Rose Blossom:
Light as a feather, only bound together. By the twine of hope.
Desired only by one and ones self. But whose counting? To breathe the breath you breathe would it change me?
Beautiful is only something acquired by the true. If tonight would be my night how would I spend it, what would you do?
Little black book you have deceived me again. Wonders and thoughts could be my only friends. Imagination courses though our being.
If only sleeps could dream. Darkness would shed away. Light would pierce the moon. Sadly I've grown to know you.
Carry my dying sight. Break through my triumphant scene. You know me better than that. I know you better than all. So go ahead stumble before, I can stand to watch you crawl.
Aching down to the pit of my depth. You've seen a shadow, burnt with nothing left. Beat through my veins. Reality through my being.
You'd never know would you? If that throat stopped beating. Sanity brings bravery crashing through. Compared to seeing through you. Try me again.
Roses always bloom. Find love in a crowd when its standing in a room.
Carry on through my weakness. Cover the tracks. Paint on the face of normal and society will clap. Shine through me. Bring hunger to an end.
Design your story. Write that, that you know.
Watch a baby rose grow.
Blood on the thorns.
Danger brings some thing new.
Please baby rose bloom.