I will not find the desire within me to seek God, He must instill within my soul a longing, and out of that longing must be a ready and willing heart to obey. If I ask God to guide me, He will make it clear that He has been here all along, and in that revealing of Himself, I can step out of my boat and walk toward Him. This faith that I hope to live, is not me building it, but God shaping and changing it daily; for He is making something inside of me that will be known for all eternity, and that thing that He is doing must be surrendered up to Christ so that His kingdom can be expanded. My whole life must be one repeated prayer of “Not my will, but Yours be done.” until my final breath.

T.B. LaBerge // Jesus, His Grace, and the Gospel. (via tblaberge)

I have always wished my body was a forest rather than flesh and bones. I would rather a wildfire burn me to the ground than the hands of a man who does not love me. At least the version of me that grows from the ashes will be more beautiful than the wreckage he will leave of my soul.

Nikita Gill, My Body, My Forest (via meanwhilepoetry)

To the men out there, complaining ‘but men also get raped’ when a woman brings up her sexual assault, how dare you turn a terrible, sickening crime against your own gender as a way to undermine female survivors? How dare you turn men into an ‘also’ when 'men get raped’ is a statement, an issue that desperately needs to be addressed independent of you using it as a platform to minimise the grief, the trauma of another human being? Let me educate you about something. A male survivor of rape would probably punch you in the face for using him as a mascot to belittle someone else’s pain.

Nikita Gill, ‘But Men Also Get Raped’ (via meanwhilepoetry)

“whats the saddest word in english?”
Almost.
“Why?”
I was almost good for her. She was almost in love with me. We almost made it.

(via high4l)

Oh damn.

(via beautifu11disaster)

I yearn for intimacy, but perhaps the kind that I don’t even believe in. I want to know someone inside and out- and back again. I want them to know me too. All of the things that sustain my beating heart- all the things that make my blood pump faster.

I’m a cynical hopeless romantic, a terrible combination.

kacious
(via wnq-writers)

My dreams are too big, my expectations too unrealistic, I’ve misplaced my desire, I’ve lost my way. My dreams have crumbled, my expectations lowered, I don’t want to feel, I want to go back. I’m tired of finding, I want to be found. My faith is shaking, my walls are building. I’m afraid of being deserted, I’m not afraid of being alone. I don’t understand what I do, or why I do it. I don’t understand me, so how can you? I can fake a smile, I can play happy. I can’t let you see me cry, I can’t let you inside. My tears are temporary, my pain fleeting. Though real. I’ll run when I’m scared, I’ll both want and not want you to come after me. I don’t care, I care all too much. I’ll blame you, I’ll blame myself. I’m mixed up, I’m torn. I want to be fixed, I just want to be me. Though I’m not always sure who that is. If I ever figure this out I know it will be ok. I know even if I don’t things will turn out fine. But for the time, I’m confused and lonely. I’ve let you down, Its hard to say. I never wanted it to be this way. But I’ll find myself someday, I’ll work this out. My dreams will be my dreams, my expectations will remain the same and I’ll find all I’ve lost. And when I do I know unrealistic will be realized, and wonderful.

J.a.Lear (via wnq-writers)

Lessons from Peter

[inspiredbysundayssermon]

In our search for depth and meat on Sundays,
do we miss the bread and wine before us?
We were taught of a man of God, Peter,
who had more complete victories and defeats
than any we know of; except, perhaps, us.

He was a sent one of God who walked on water,
then sank like a rock.
He proclaimed His Lord the Christ would never die,
was rebuked with the title of Satan.
He was the one who declared he would die for Jesus
then wept when the rooster crowed
For he had denied not once, not twice, but three times.
“Can there be hope for such a man?” we ask.

We, who sit primly in our Sunday pews with critical ear
judging with mental measuring rods to see
if the depth of the sermon warrants us
stepping out of the boat and onto the water,
and not hearing words of Hebrew or Greek,
dismiss what is said and remain in the boat.

We, who know that scriptures tell of Jesus,
the One in whom all goodness dwells,
yet pray for spiritual transformation 
and then proceed with fervid vanity
trying to accomplish it without His Spirit.

We, who deny our Lord, not in word,
but in our actions every day.
Full access to the Spirit, just like Christ,
but with self-centered pride we fall
not once, not twice, not even three times,
but over and over and over again,
day after day after endless day
Can there be hope for such as we?

[poemvs]

- { E.P. }