I like you because you're a fighter.
You're steady and kind, a firm delighter.
You're independent and dependent, caring with conviction.

I'm a writer, longing to find the right words.
Where does recognition come from?

I'm independently trying to pave my own way, always looking for Jesus to reclaim my mind; my life.

I struggle, always trying to find the balance between spending time with those I love-- the broken, addicted, and abandoned-- and pursuing what I love.
Writing for a living is a privilege. If I accept this, how will they accept me?

I want to know what you love, what brings chills to your body, where you find your truest meaning.

You made it, all your family and friends agree: they're proud of you.
You put in the work, played the melody right.
It's not a perfect life, but your sweat has purpose; reason.

I'm searching, always looking for that: what you hold so easily.
I can see it coming, on some faraway horizon.

It's the day that I met you when I could believe again it really is possible.
It's my future in tune with yours that creates the song I've dreamt to see.
You're my connection; you're my fighter; a melody to my broken rhythm, giving me the strength to see past the past into another future day.

It's a faint hope, a small whisper, but either way, I'll still be on my way.
But I'd rather it be engraved with a ring and sealed with another future kiss.

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