I’m A Hurricane.

Prompt: Break on me.


I withhold,
I resist,
I deny,
I insist.

I feel guilt. I feel shame.
You; persistent, patient, and comforting.

You are the pillow I lay upon to cry myself to sleep,
The teddy I grasp tight, the blankets that hold me.

I suppose I’m embarrassed to be weak,
Afraid to be too much,
Scared to ask for help,
And frightened You’ll give up on me.

I’ve cried more tears on You than anyone,
And Your salt-stained skin remains undamaged from the flooding,
Your body unharmed from my repetitive corrosion.

You insists I crash upon You like a wave,
That You’ll be my shore for me to break upon.
I just don’t want to wash You away,
I don’t want to erode You by way of riptide.

Though it may be hard for me,
I will always seek You out in the end.
You will always be my shore.
My lap.
My Home.
My pillow.
My love.
That will hold me until the hurt is gone.

I only trust You with this.

Only You get this part of me.
Because You wanted it.
All of it.
And I will give it.




Odd Interpretation Of The Relentlessly Tormenting Bird That’s Not A Bird.

Prompt: The Raven


This was a pretty great prompt. Thank You, Master. I enjoy expressing my opinions of literature.


The raven. An omen bearing news of ill.
When most read this poem, I believe they understand the raven to be a simple bird, irritating, and ominous. Personally, I see the bird as much, much more than just an animal.

If you would consider the possibility of the raven being a non-sentient, abstract thing, you may share the concept with me that the raven is an illustration of the narrators psyche.

The raven itself comes into the scene when the narrator is attempting to distract himself from mourning his late love, Lenore. He seems to be able to regulate his feelings of heartache until this raven appears. As he attempts to divert grieving to his studies, the Raven makes itself known in sundry ways. The narrator denies his psyche, and therefor denies the existence of the raven; “‘Tis some visitor, …only this and nothing more.”

Repeating this denial, the narrator finally succumbs to the darkness when he opens his door, cautiously allowing his grieving mind to eventually overcome him. This is confirmed when we hear the name of his lost lover from the eerie darkness, “Lenore”. Just as the narrator begins rejecting his mourning soul yet again, the raven is let into his home, manifesting his acceptance of, and being overwhelmed by, his psyche. The solid, physical form of the raven appearing draws this conclusion.

The narrator interrogates the raven, with various questions about heaven, and his Lenore. These are perhaps questions that he’s also been denying the answers to, out of fear of death and the uncertainty that follows. The raven confirms each one of his worries, such as the existence of the afterlife and if Lenore has been summoned to heaven, by quoting “Nevermore”, when the narrator proposes these questions to it. The narrator is now facing his worst fears and wants to continue to deny them. He insists the raven is a demon sent to torment him, and begs him to leave.

After finally submitting to his obsessive, distressed mind, the narrator painfully accepts that he is to live in the ravens shadow, forever burdened by his grief and sorrow, and haunted by his memories of Lenore.




The Conversion Of Harlot.

Prompt: Damascus Road Slut


You are the one who spoke unto me,
Who brought me from darkness to light,
Who gave me faith,
And a path to follow.

By this perversion conversion,
I’ve found my way.

If my one
Life-changing moment
Is You telling me
How to be a proper slut for You,
I bask in Your wisdom
And Kneel before You.

If my purpose
On this path
Would be to simply
Spread my legs,
Then I shall obey.

“The response of the redeemed is obedience.”

I come to You as Saul
Asking what You want me to do,
And You point the way
To my redemption;
Living my purpose through service.

If I must redeem myself
Through whorish deeds,
So it shall be.

Show me the way, my King.

In the end,
I get the privilege of receiving You,
Of becoming anew,
Of becoming what You want me to be for You.

~Your refined Harlot


Your Truth.

Context: I was asked to write about a paradigm shift in my mind, about how I changed my thinking and what I’d learned. A lot of the times when I seem like I’m not alright, I actually am and sometimes I lack conviction. Sometimes if a situation arises that has upset me before, He’ll ask if I’m upset, and I’ll honestly not be, and say so. But He believes me because He has faith in me. When I’d pondered intentions and made assumptions from His actions or words, I would second guess His truths, even try to refute them. I had a moment of clarity when I had asked Him, frustrated as ever, just -how- I was supposed to just simply accept what He’d said and believe it, and He responded that “You just do”. Going on to explain, (not verbatim), that despite all past experiences and contradictory evidence, He’d just accepted what I said to be true as fact. When you love your partner, you have trust and faith in them, you’re honest, and you expect truth in return, even if it hurts sometimes. This is foundational, respectable, and honorable.


This was a learning experience for me in the way I was able to just accept something. Without question. And truly believe it in my heart.

I know that I’ve asked You to just believe me, even when it was hard, even when all other signs are signalling the contrary. When I’ve told You I wasn’t upset about something, or that something wouldn’t bother me, or that I was okay, I know there’s been trying times when You’ve just had to accept those as fact. It’s only fair that I would do the same for You. 

Declaring that “you’re right”, in that moment, after You explained how You’ve usually just come to terms with my statements, was a moment of clarity. It was me realizing that yes, You -do- do that for me, even when it’s hard to believe things I say to be true. I recognized the pattern, but hadn’t ever added it up. It’s fair that I have the same faith in You, as You do in me. If You tell me Your intent was not what I’d assumed, that You weren’t upset, that You didn’t do something because of whatever…, I will honor Your truth, because You do for me. Regardless of context, or situation, or circumstance, Your word is the one I follow, and You are the one I put my faith in. 

I will respect You by honoring Your word, as You do to respect me. This is fair. This is faith. I love You.




You don’t scare me.

In those moments of primal desire,
Mouth salivating like a wolf who hasn’t eaten in days,
Eyes ripping through my flesh,
Claws piercing just the same,
You don’t scare me.

When You’ve pinned me by the throat,
On the verge of blacking out,
And I’m struggling for that breath,
For that life to come back to me,
You don’t scare me.

When this bright red drags across my skin,
By way of Your hand,
Leaving trails of sting and suffering,
And I cringe with each strike,
You don’t scare me.

When I’m sobbing at Your feet,
Black streaming down my face,
I’m shivering, shaking, trembling,
Broken into pieces before You,
You don’t scare me.

When Your demons show,
Not just carnal, but Your true demons,
The ones that seep into your head when You’re not looking,
And the ones that once possessed You,
You don’t scare me.

And when You break on me,
When that strong, dominant man crumbles,
My lap is filled with tears and hurt,
And a side that gets tucked away shows itself,
You don’t scare me.

You don’t scare me.
You are Home.
You are my safe place,
My haven,
My sanctuary that’s never far.

You don’t scare me because I see You fight Your demons,
I see You stand up to Your fears,
I see You conquer who You used to be
Each and every single day I’m with You.
You don’t scare me because I see You grow,
I see You learn,
I see You try to be a better man
With every breath,
With every touch,
Every interaction in Your life.

You don’t scare me because
Just how I’d throw myself in front of You
To protect You from harm,
You protect me every day.
You care for me and nurture me like no one has before.
You, my Keeper,
My King,
My Messiah.

Don’t ever doubt me being in Your corner,
I will stand tall and proud.
I don’t fear standing up beside You.
I will fight for You,
Every day.

I don’t care what others tell of,
I will not falter.
You don’t scare me.

I know You.

You are Home.


I Will Live For You, Too.

Prompt: “I’d die trying to show you just how deep my love goes.”



If it took
One million “I love you“‘s,
One million hours
Of holding You tight,
I would do it.

If it took
Countless late nights of
Crying and hurt,
Trying to bandage wounds,
I would do it.

If it took
Years of painful growth,
Hard work,
And learning new things,
I would do it.

If it took
Facing every single
Fear of mine,
And conquering the terror,
I would do it.

If it took
Everything I had in me,
Every piece of this heart,
All given unto You,
I would do it.

If it took
My last breath,
Every drop of blood inside,
Dying for You,
I would do it.

I will do all of this and more,
Only to convey how deeply
I love You,
How genuine and potent my love is,
And how much this love we share
Means to me.
I love You with this breath,
And I’ll love You in my death.
And if it takes
Living for You,
Even if it’s the hardest thing
For me to do some days,
I’ll do that too.



Papergirl & Ink.

Prompt: My writing.


I have always been able to express myself much easier, and more in depth through my writing. This was truly a great exercise that You have tasked me with.


There are some days, like today, where I have a difficult time putting what I feel into words, however. Consider it writers block. Those are usually days when my anxiety is at it’s highest, and it makes it 10x more frustrating for me to write. This is due to my perfectionism and anxiety. I’m terrified that what I spell out onto the paper or screen will not be good enough, that it will lack anything significant, that my point will not be made and it will seem more like lackluster word vomit than an actual story with emotion and depth.


I am my own worst critic. I’m the stereotypical writer girl, scribbling words onto paper and crumbling it up into tiny paper balls to throw at my heaped over trash can full of terrible ideas. Sometimes, that’s metaphorical for the way my brain works as well; Always throwing out all these thoughts that come up, at least as far as writing goes. 


I know that I need to just let things go sometimes and write what comes into my head, but I have the urge to make it sound pretty, to make sure -all- of my words float upon the tongue gracefully, and taste like passion. I realize that’s not realistic; to have everything I write be a total mind-blowing masterpiece. I need to be okay with that. I need to tell my brain to calm down and that I am a flawed human, and so my writing will be filled with holes and flaws as well.


What I write is how I feel. It is for the purpose of gaining insight on certain topics and letting myself flow out of that. You tell me I’m not being graded, but my head makes me re-read posts until the words start to blur together. My brain grades me. 


Before I write, I do a meditation. This doesn’t have to be long, just until my head is clear and I can bring the prompt into the light without any brain-pollution. When I start focusing on the prompt, sometimes words just come and flow out of me. Sometimes they don’t, and I sit there a little longer until I have some thoughts I can work with. I write near the end of the day because it is when I am calmest, and my other tasks/chores have been completed for the day and I need not worry about interruptions popping up. My stress level is the lowest then, and I can actually enjoy writing for You. I want to keep it separate from my other daily tasks and chores so that it doesn’t feel or become like just another task or chore. I want to look forward to it. And this is the best way I know how to do that. I never want to lose sight of this and find myself dreading writing. Writing is damn near all I have left as a method to express myself. Without it, I’d be so, so lost. So I need to be sure this is something that makes me happy, makes You happy, and be careful not to confuse it for a chore. 


Ps: Yes, I do still like doing chores and tasks for You, Master. Sometimes I don’t necessarily -enjoy- the chore, but I enjoy how it pleases You. I live to please You. And without that instant gratification of Your smile or ‘good girl’s’, or tight hugs, or ‘you did well’s’, I can’t always feel sure that this writing task pleases You after each entry. So, don’t think that I’m putting a negative view on chores or tasks, because I’m not. Chores and tasks -You- give me have meaning and substance and pleasure attached to them. My own chores and tasks however, mostly do not. They’re just another thing I have to do. And I never want anything We share together to become ‘just another thing I have to do’. I want to enjoy and love the fuck out of it.

And so I do.



I lay In The Bed Of You.

Prompt: Rest.


Rest is something almost foreign to me. If my brain would rest for more than 5 minutes, I could conquer a lot of things. If my body would rest for more than 4 hours each night, I’d not feel so much weakness in it. 

I am exhausted, tired of fighting, tired of pain, tired of worry and sadness constantly harassing my head and my heart. I’m sick of being sick, tired of trying to explain to people to get them to understand when they think it’s all imaginary because I don’t have a physical ailment they can see. 

I’m tired of hurting, tired of pain. Tired of guilt and tired of shame. 

I want to rest. 

The mental workout I go through daily is rigorous and unfair. Unconsenting to this relentless routine, I must endure and make it out alive at the end of the day. The mental affects the physical. The physical affects the mental. And it’s a vicious cycle of pain and tiredness. 

I can rest when You’re here, though. I can rest in You’re arms and at Your feet. I can rest when You whisper words of wisdom and strength and love into me. I can rest when I’m Home. 

I know there’s ways I can feel my Home from a distance, but it’s not the same. It’s like holding a souvenir from a place you’ve been and want to be again, but holding something in your hands doesn’t bring you to that place. You can’t feel the breeze in your hair or the sun on your skin. You can imagine it in your head and feel the things you felt when you were in that place, like joy and pleasure and light. But to genuinely re-experience those feelings, you need to -be- there. You are my place. You are my Home. And when I can lay in my bed of You and hold tightly the sheets of Your skin and lay my head upon the pillow of your chest where I can feel Your heart beat through me, then I can rest. 



Paint Me Something Beautiful.

Prompt: I have become…



I have become something of value.
Something of worth.
I have become conscious and aware, awake and alive. I mean, I feel more alive than I ever have. Even if the things I feel aren’t great all the time. I still feel. 

I have become selfless in my service, learning to love and live my life for someone who values it, because I was ready to let it slip through my fingers.
I have become wiser and stronger, because He has helped me stitch up my seams, taught me right from wrong, and shown me a better way.

I have become whole and fulfilled, given a purpose for a recreated life.
I have become His in every possible way.
He laid His hand upon me and I shone with promise and potential.
He took me and carved me from a marble slab into a work of art.

I feel I have become tamed. This wild soul no longer seeking to run wherever I please, but rather, seeking stability and consistency.
I have become a product of passion and love;
Things I have a hard time experiencing as genuine. 

I am now what I never thought I could be; I have become an open book – His to read, to turn the pages of my soul and study every syllable contained in me. I have become enslaved to Man and His Mission, wearing His mark, His collar, His name upon me. 

I have become an apostle anew; Reforged and reformed in His fire to fit into His palm just right. 

He made me who I am; paint and canvas, clay and fire.
And I have become something beautiful and worthy of love.
I have become His masterpiece.


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