The Hands Are Churches That Worship The

I'm Writing Mostly To Thank You For Living You Eighty Years And To Tell You I Love You And Think Of You Often.

We Start Out As Little Bits Of Disconnected Dust.

I'm Not Interested In Who Suffered The Most. I'm Interested In People Getting Over It.

I'm Like The Weather, Never Really Can Predict When This Rain Cloud's Gonna Burst; When It's The High Or It's The Low, When You Might Need A Light Jacket. Sometimes I'm The Slush That Sticks To The Bottom Of Your Work Pants, But I Can Easily Be The Melting Snowflakes Clinging To Your Long Lashes. I Know That Some People Like: Sunny And Seventy-five, Sunny And Seventy-five, Sunny And Seventy-five, But You Take Me As I Am And Never Forget To Pack An Umbrella.

Because Sometimes I Live In A Hurricane Of Words And Not One Of Them Can Save Me.